Absolution
by SqueakyPen
Summary: Seven years after Draco Malfoy commits an atrocious act of brutality in a dark dungeon cell, he surrenders to the Ministry for undisclosed reasons, and finds himself at the mercy of Hermione Granger, who has secrets of her own. WARNING: Mature content.
1. Prologue: Fractured

Disclaimer: The characters all belong to J.K. Rowling, the amazing author who came up with the fabulous Harry Potter series!

WARNING: The prologue contains mature content (rape/non-consensual sex), so please don't read it if you find it particularly offensive. It's a very touchy subject, but it's the catalyst for everything else that happens in this story, and I've tried to deal with it in a mature way, at least I hope. It's rated M for a reason, so please be aware of that.

Author's Note: This story is not completely DH compliant, but it does have DH spoilers, so be careful! It starts out in 2000, which makes the trio about 20 years old. So after the battle in DH, Voldemort is dead, but the Death Eater refused to surrender. At this point, the Death Eaters have taken over the Ministry, and Harry Potter is leading an underground army, the resistance. This isn't important at all, really, just some background.

-x-

**ABSOLUTION**

**by SqueakyPen**

-x-

- Prologue -

_Fractured_

-x-

_August 3, 2000_

The crunch of bone hitting bone and the sound of whip against skin assaulted his ears as he descended the last few stairs, before his feet even hit the cold dungeon floor. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he followed the trail of kerosene lamps that lined the damp walkway toward the source of the noise. He approached the last cell at the end of path, and as he neared, the sound of the whip ceased.

He stopped in the shadow of the dungeon, before he reached the cell, staying out of the line of sight. He heard the clank of the iron bars opening and closing, and not long after Gregory Goyle appeared in front of him.

"Anything?"

"We've tried everything, she won't break."

"Don't be daft – everyone breaks."

"Not _her_."

"She just needs the right motivation."

"Like what?"

Draco Malfoy stepped out from the shadow and surveyed the scene before him. She was sitting in the far corner, hugging her knees to her chest. She was donned in a sack-like makeshift gown all the prisoners were required to wear, and although it had at first been white, it had become a murky brown color after a series of beatings. Her skin was covered with a layer of dirt grime, and she was black and blue with bruises.

His gaze scorched her and she glanced up, and upon recognizing who it was, her eyes narrowed. She stood up and approached the metals bars that separated her from the blond-haired man, never relinquishing her fiery glare.

"Leave us."

Goyle obeyed wordlessly and scurried along to the end of the dark hallway, up the winding stone staircase, his footsteps echoing in the distance until they faded into nothing.

He was taller than she had remembered from their days at Hogwarts. Still the same white-blond hair, the same grey eyes, and the same tall, lean build. But something was different – his eyes were more serious, and he carried himself differently now that he was no longer a boy. The spoiled demeanor of his school days had diminished when he became the head of the Malfoy household after Lucius's death, inheriting a fortune, and was replaced by an air of confident arrogance.

"What do you want?"

"Is that how you greet an old friend, Granger?"

He let himself into her cell, and locked it behind him.

"Goyle tells me you've been uncooperative."

"Sod off, Malfoy."

"You're not exactly in a position to make demands."

"I'm not going to tell you anything." She crossed her arms.

"I'm here to persuade you to change your mind."

"Don't waste your breath."

He hit her hard across the face with the back of his hand, sending her reeling across the cell.

She picked herself up without a flinch. "You don't scare me."

"You don't want me to."

He circled her.

"Right now Granger, you have two choices. One, you tell me where the headquarters for the resistance is and I let you die with some dignity. Or two, you keep up this ridiculous façade of bravery and you will die painfully, after I've retrieved the information I need through - " and here he paused, as if to choose his next words carefully, "_alternative_ means."

She steeled herself. "Go to hell."

"Don't make this difficult, Granger."

She spat in his face.

He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his cheek. When she looked at him again, his face was livid.

"If that's how you want it." He threw off his black coat, loosened his collar, and began to roll up his sleeves. "I'm going to squeeze every little secret out of you."

"I'm not scared of you," she said, raising her head defiantly.

"Oh, you're not, are you," he replied, closing in on her. "We'll have to do something about that, won't we, Granger?"

There was something in his eyes – something so terrifying she couldn't identify, and for the first time in five days, she was frightened. She backed away from him, and he closed in on her like a predator ready for the kill, and before she knew it, he had her pinned against the wall, his hands on the cold stone wall on either side of her head, trapping her.

He leaned in toward her pale face which was donned with an expression of determination and feigned courage, his lips against her ear, and he whispered, "Scared now, Granger?"

She didn't answer, but her bated breath told him all he needed to know.

"Or how about now?" he taunted, this time louder, as he reached under the gown and slid a hand up her inner thigh to where her legs met.

She fought back immediately, hitting him with her arms in an effort to escape his touch. But she was weak – she had not eaten since her capture nearly a week ago, so her efforts were largely in vain. "Don't touch me!"

He responded by tearing her knickers, and upon hearing the fabric rip and come away, she pushed against him with new resolve.

Her efforts were futile; he hiked her gown up to her navel, exposing her white flesh. She fought against him, trying to push him away with her arms, but her previous beating had taken a toll and all she had managed was to scratch him on his cheek. He pinned her thin wrists above her head with one strong arm, and hiked a knee between her legs, as his other hand fumbled with his trousers. Suddenly, she felt something hard rub against her stomach, and her whole body tensed with fear as the severity of the situation finally struck her. He used this moment of surprise to pry her legs open and hoist her up against the wall so that her feet could no longer touch the floor for support.

She wanted to sink into the wall, to escape his touch, to escape his rough hands that touched her in the most private areas of her body. His lips moved to her neck as he suckled his way down to her collarbone, and she fought hard not to cry. The hardness that had so frightened her earlier only became more and more apparent as she felt it against her inner thigh.

"Stop it, Malfoy, don't do this," she begged, fear evident in her voice.

In one swift move, he released her wrists, lifted her thighs up with his arms, and guided himself to her, letting gravity pull her onto him as he thrust up. At once, he felt something tear, but the next moment, he was enveloped inside her, so warm and so tight it was nearly painful for him. She cried out at the sudden intrusion, her whole body went rigid at the brutality of the assault, and her vision faded to black. The sharp, burning pain at the onslaught as something ripped was followed by the excruciating pain of stretching something inside her that had never been stretched to accommodate him. It was pain so hard that her legs went numb, and her eyes overflowed with tears, hurting in places she never knew could hurt.

He had felt that familiar tug when he first entered her, and he knew exactly what it had meant, and he briefly was reminded of Pansy's first time. He had been gentle that night, whispering words of endearment as he moved within her, careful not to hurt her. But this wasn't about love – it was about control, carefully calculated to achieve the desired effect, a means to an end.

"Stop it," she cried frantically, as she pushed her arms against his chest. "Stop it, please."

He pulled out of her slowly, as her unpracticed muscles gripped him so that it was almost painful as he withdrew, so that only the tip of the head remained inside her. For a moment, she thought that perhaps it was all over, that he would let her go. The next moment he was buried inside of her again, and she was hit with a fresh wave of pain. He groaned, savoring the warmth her inner core provided as it clenched around him. As the sensation took over his mind, he pulled out of her, and thrust back with reckless abandon, bruising her against the hard stone wall. She collapsed against him, her whole body wracked with pain, sobbing uncontrollably as he moved within her, the friction like sandpaper. Eventually she learned that if she stopped fighting against him, it would hurt less. Wrapping her legs around him, and supporting her arms on his shoulders, she could reduce the force of gravity that impaled her onto him, making each thrust more bearable.

As the minutes ebbed away, his thrusts became quicker and more erratic, until he plunged in one last time and tensed. As he finished, hot jets of his release burned her from the inside out, and she bit her lip to stop from crying out. The otherwise quiet night was filled the sounds of his heavy breathing and her sobs, and they stayed for a moment like this, her arms still wrapped around him, his head in the nook of her shoulder, feeling her body tremble against his. When he finally released her, she collapsed onto the dungeon floor.

The pain had now ebbed into a terrible soreness that throbbed deep inside her. She felt a wetness between her thighs, which she knew was her own blood mingled with his contributions, and a wave of nausea assaulted her. With her body shaking and convulsing, she clutched her stomach and retched onto the blood and grime-coated dungeon ground, wracked with sobs as the white acid of her stomach mingled with red.

Somewhere above her, she heard a "_Scourgify!_" and the sound of a zipper being pulled up. And then –

"Are you ready to talk, Granger?"

His words were met with quiet sobs.

When she didn't answer again and refused to meet his eyes, he knelt down beside her, grabbed her chin roughly between his hand and turned her eyes to him. Her eyes were red, and spoke of humiliation and defeat, and her face was smeared with grime and tears.

"We have all the time in the world, Granger," he whispered, his face edging towards hers. "Are you going to talk, or shall we try again?"

She tried to speak, but no words would come to her. He took her silence as impudence and pulled her roughly towards him, splaying her carelessly onto her back with her brown curly in wild disarray. He pried her legs open once again, and nestled himself in between.

"Stop it, stop it!" She cried hoarsely as her voice finally returned to her. "Don't, please, don't."

She heard the sound of a zipper again, and swung her arms at him, trying to escape from his touch. As his hands were busy trying to free himself from the constraints of his trousers, she managed for a brief moment to turn herself onto her stomach and attempted to crawl out from underneath him. But the next moment, he grasped her legs, flipped her onto her back again, and dragged her to him, hitting her face hard so that she lost consciousness for a few seconds.

Her vision went black. When she came to again, moments later, his visage loomed over her.

"Granger, darling, why do you do this to yourself?" He made the term of endearment sound so filthy.

"Please - please don't."

Her grabbed her hips and in one swift move, he was buried inside her again, somewhat easier than the last time because of his previous contributions that had provided the needed lubrication. She gasped in pain and tried to push him away.

"_It hurts_."

Those simple two words caught him by surprise and he turned his gaze on her eyes, which were filled with fear and desperation and something else he couldn't name. For a fleeting moment, his expression softened as he lost his composure, but it passed quickly and he responded to this moment of weakness by pulling out and thrusting roughly back into her.

"You know, Granger, I'm beginning to think you like this."

He felt her writhe beneath him and quickened his pace. She pushed her arms against him, 

but her efforts were futile, and all she could do was cry.

"Stop it, no, stop it, please…stop it…please…I'll tell you everything."

-x-x-x-

_August 4, 2000_

"Ron…Ron…" she muttered as her eyelids fluttered. "Ron…"

"You're safe now." A gentle hand caressed her cheek.

The deep masculine voice jolted every fiber in her body and her eyes snapped open in primal fear as she made a move to shield herself.

"Stop it! Get away from me, leave me alone!" she cried fearfully, swinging her arms against the intruder before she had a chance to survey her surroundings.

"It's me, Hermione, it's me Harry," he said, as he tried to restrain her. "It's all right, it's Harry. Hermione Granger, it's me – Harry – Harry Potter."

Her movements ceased, and breathing heavily, she peered anxiously at him, as if trying to recognize his features. When she realized that it was indeed her best friend, she moved her eyes around the room, and saw that it was Ginny's room at the Burrow. Her features softened and the fear in her eyes began to settle into disbelief and then shame. She couldn't let them know what had happened to her – what _she'd_ done.

"You're safe now, Hermione, it's over," Harry reassured as he reached out a hand to stroke her arm. "Ginny's running you a warm bath and -"

"Don't touch me!" she cried instinctively, drawing her arm away from his touch. Seeing the expression of bewilderment on his face, she was wracked by guilt. She shook her head remorsefully. "I'm – I'm sorry. I don't know what – what got into me. Just don't - don't touch – I – I feel dirty."

"It's okay, Hermione," he repeated. "How about that warm bath, then?"

"Yeah…" she said quietly, nodding. "Yeah…that would be good."

"Can – can I – carry you over?" he asked hesitantly, in light of her reaction the first time he had tried to touch her. "I don't think you're strong enough to walk all the way over there."

She had an instinct to say no, but caught herself before the words came out. She swallowed, and forced a brave smile. "Yeah…yeah, thank you."

He lifted the blanket off of her, exposing her bruised body donned in the same dirty small smock she had been wearing when they rescued her, and she tried to cover herself with her arms to hide her injuries. When he had found her lying unconscious in the cold dungeon just a few hours earlier, he had been so hurried to get her out of there and return to the Burrow that he had hardly noticed the state of her injuries.

Her skin was layered with dirt and grime, almost hiding the black and blue bruises underneath. She was thinner, much too thin, than the last time he had seen her, and he realized the extent of the toll her body had taken in its five days of captivity. He tucked one arm under her knees and the other under her shoulders and lifted her off of the bed, careful not to damage her fragile body. He noticed the way she flinched at his touch and the caked blood on the hem of the gown and along her thighs did not escape his gaze.

"I'm sorry," she began, trying to keep from sobbing, "I told them - I told them everything."

Harry squeezed her against him. "It doesn't matter, Hermione. What matters is that you're safe. Whatever happens from now on, it's all right, because you're here and safe and alive, and we can fight it, we can fight back no matter what they do."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry," she repeated over and over again.

"No, no, Hermione," he hushed as his eyes glistened, "I'm the one who should be sorry, I should have gotten you out of there sooner. I shouldn't have let anything happen to you."

Harry carried her out of Ginny's room, turning to slide out of the doorway. Hermione pressed her face against his chest, and he felt her hot tears through the fabric of his shirt.

"Shhhh…it's okay now," he whispered.

Suddenly, she tensed in his arms.

"Where's Ron?" she asked feverishly. "Is he okay? I don't – I don't want him to know – I don't want him to see me like this…don't let him see me…please, don't…"

Harry paused and swallowed the lump in his throat. "It's all right, Hermione. Ron - " he paused to collect himself "– Ron's not here. Don't worry, we'll sort everything else out after you're all cleaned up."

Ginny was sitting on the side of the bathtub, testing the temperature of the water with her hands, but as soon as they entered, she jumped to her feet towards them.

"Hermione! Oh, sweetheart, you're finally awake, you slept for nearly a whole day, and we were so worried that - " her voice trailed off. "Let's get you in the bath."

Harry set Hermione's feet on the ground and steadied her, making sure her legs were strong enough to support her weight. Ginny lent her arm to Hermione for support.

"I'll be back to see you after you're cleaned up and comfortable," Harry said. He took one more concerned look at his friend, and turned to leave. He patted Ginny on the arm. "Take good care of her, Ginny."

Ginny nodded. "Don't worry."

When the door shut behind him, Ginny turned to Hermione, who was clutching her arms to her chest.

"Let me help you take those off," she said, moving her hands to the hem of Hermione's soiled garment.

Hermione shied away from her. "No…no, I don't want you to see."

"It's okay, Hermione, I just going to help you," she said tenderly. "I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."

Hermione sniffed, and then hesitantly nodded her head. Ginny helped her lift the garment over her head and discarded it on the floor. As the soiled cloth came up, it revealed the full extent of Hermione's injuries, and she made a move to cover herself.

Ginny inhaled sharply as she surveyed her friend's damage, and she couldn't help but turn her eyes away, needing a moment to compose herself. "Well, I suppose the important thing is that you're alive."

She held Hermione's arm as she stepped into the tub, unaware that every step - every movement – was painful, and steadied her as she sat down, letting the warm water relax her sore muscles. Seeing Hermione's current state, Ginny closed her eyes and tried not to cry.

"I'm all right, Ginny, I really am," she said, putting on a brave front. "I just need to get washed up a bit, that's all. Don't worry about me."

"You're in terrible shape, Hermione," Ginny said, aghast. "Who did all this? What happened, Hermione? Oh, God, what did they do?"

"I'm fine," Hermione lied, her voice growing stronger now, more as an attempt to convince herself than Ginny. "See? No broken bones. And the bruises will go away."

Ginny handed her a bar of soap. "After you wash up, you could do with a good meal. You look like you've been starved."

Hermione nodded to satisfy Ginny, although she had no appetite, and doubted she would be able to force down anything.

"Which reminds me, I've got to take out the meatloaf, will you be all right for a moment?"

"I'll - be - just - fine, Ginny, go check the meatloaf, I don't want to be eating a burnt supper," Hermione joked with a forced smile, trying to lighten up the tone. She preferred to be alone anyway.

Ginny looked unsure, but nodded nonetheless. "I'll be right back, I promise."

She hurried out of the bathroom and made her way down two flights of rickety stairs into the kitchen where a group of weary wizards and witches were having a solemn conversation, with maps scattered all over the large dining room table. She made her way over to the oven when she noticed that the meatloaf was already out and sitting on the countertop.

"How is she?" asked Neville Longbottom after a long silence.

"Well, she's shocked, and hurt," Ginny began, "but that's all to be expected. After the bruises fade and the cuts heal, I'm sure she'll be all right."

As the room erupted in smiles and laughs of relief, and conversation was restored, Harry gave her a strange look, and when she didn't respond to him, he stood up from the table, took her arm, and led her out of earshot of the entire group.

"Did you tell her about Ron?" he asked quietly, knowing it was going to be a sensitive subject for his young wife.

He was right; Ginny's eyes clouded at the thought of her dead brother. "No…I – I didn't want to – not until she's better, until she's healed a bit…I don't think…she can handle too much more…right now."

"Ginny," he began cautiously, unsure of how to broach the subject, "I don't think she's going to be all right for a long time."

"What do you mean?" she said. "Yes, well I'm pretty sure they tortured the hell out of her, the injuries can speak for themselves, but give her a few days, she's strong - "

"Listen, think about it. What if it's not just about the beating and the torture…what about - " he paused uncomfortably, trying to find the right words. "What do you think is the worst thing that could ever happen to a woman?"

"What?" Ginny said. "What do you mean? What - " and then it dawned on her, "_No_."

Harry looked away, averting her eyes, and nodded.

"No!" Ginny repeated. "No, no, no, oh, God, I can't believe it – I won't. What makes you think - ?"

"Intuition…you know the way she acts, her demeanor…"

"Oh, God, I've got to make sure she's all right," Ginny said hurriedly. "I've left her all by herself…I don't even know what to do, Harry, what am I supposed to do? Or say?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know, Ginny, I don't know."

"Oh, God, I've got to make sure she's all right," Ginny said, as she brushed past him and hurried up the stairs, her legs carrying her as fast as she could go. When she reached the bathroom, she paused outside the door, trying to think of something to say. When nothing came to mind, she knocked and said, "Hermione, it's me, Ginny, I'm coming in."

She turned the knob and pushed, the door creaking open to reveal a frenzied Hermione, a wash brush in hand scrubbing frantically over her body, skin raw and red.

"Hermione!" Ginny cried, rushing to her side. "Hermione! Let go, you're scrubbing your skin off, Hermione!"

"I can't get it off – I can't – oh God, Ginny – why can't I get it off," she choked hysterically, as she scrubbed the brush frantically over her red, raw skin. "It won't come off – it – it- it won't- come off - "

"It's okay, Hermione. You're safe now," Ginny said, trying to grab the coarse brush from her hands. "Let me take the brush, Hermione, you can use the sponge instead."

Hermione shook her head in a craze, her breaths quick and shallow. "I can't get it off – I can't get _him_ off, Ginny. I can't – I can't – it won't come off!"

"Hermione, let me help you, I want to help you, but you have to trust me," she said gently.

"_I have to get it off me, Ginny, why won't it come off?_" She broke into a hysteric fit of sobs, dropping the brush from her shaking hand, letting it sink into the bathwater. She buried her face in her hands as her body shook, rippling the bathwater.

Kneeling by the side of the tub, Ginny reached over and held Hermione's head against her bosom, tenderly brushing her wet hair to the side of her face.

"It's okay to cry, Hermione. You're allowed to cry."

-x-x-x-

_April 17, 2001_

"Do you want to see him?"

Ginny Potter shut the door behind her, drowning out the loud crying in the hallway beyond, and slowly approached her best friend's bedside.

She was sitting upright in the bed, her brown curls in a disheveled mess around her pale face, and her eyes were distant. She turned her eyes toward the window, watching the curtains flutter against the gentle night breeze and swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.

"_Him?_"

Ginny nodded, and sunk down on the bed next to her best friend, who looked away from the window.

"No," Hermione said blankly, staring down, clutching the soft cotton blanket she was nestled in.

"It's okay, Hermione," Ginny reassured, grasping the brunette's hand in her own.

"I can't, Ginny, I can't," She choked, shaking her head and averting her gaze. "I can't, Ginny, I just can't."

Ginny clasped her hand in between her own. "Do you want me to bring him - "

"No!" Hermione said frantically. "I – I can't."

Ginny nodded in understanding.

"I'm - I'm afraid that if I see him -" she swallowed hard – "I'll _love_ him."

The tears she had been so determined to blink back poured out from the corner of her eyes, staining the quilted blanket.

"Oh, Hermione," Ginny implored, "there's nothing wrong with love."

She closed her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. "At least now, I could tell myself that I don't want him – that I hate him…but if I saw him…I wouldn't be able to let him go because I would know I loved him…And if…if I loved him, I would hate myself, Ginny. I would hate myself for loving a part of _him_."

She fumbled with the hem of the blanket, trying to distance her thoughts.

"And at the same time, I'm scared that I can't love him – love him as much as he deserves, because every time I see him, I would – I would – see _him_ – somewhere in there. And he – he deserves someone better – someone better to love him. He deserves more than me, doesn't he?"

There was a knock on the door and the sound of faint crying behind it. Hermione grasped Ginny's hand in fear, and drew her breath in a loud hiccup.

When Hermione did nothing to object, Ginny cleared her throat and said, "Come in."

As soon as the door opened, loud wails trailed into the room. A worn and weary Harry Potter appeared in the door frame, holding a small bundle tenderly in his arms. Hermione turned away as her body became racked by sobs.

Harry approached the two women silently, and passed the crying bundle to Ginny, who tried to hush the infant, to no avail.

"Stop the _crying_." Hermione covered her ears, trying to drown out the child, to deny its existence.

"Hermione?"

"_No - !_"

Ginny offered the crying infant to Hermione who, slowly and reluctantly, took him into her arms with her eyes averted. Steeling herself she pulled aside the soft blanket to see his face. His crying lulled, and he stared up at her with open eyes.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Harry whispered, kneeling down by her bedside, one arm around his wife, Ginny.

"He's…he's so small," Hermione sniffed. She ran her finger softly through his tuft of light hair and traced the curves of his face. "He's so perfect. How can he be so perfect?" She was assaulted with another flood of tears. "God, he's my _son_. Is he really mine?"

Ginny smiled gently.

"What if – what if I can't love him the way he deserves? No, I can't keep him. He deserves better."

"What he deserves is his mother's love," Ginny said. "He needs you."

"What if he's – he's a monster, just like - " Hermione choked. "He's half – half – of _him_ - oh God, what if he's a monster? What have I done?"

"Not if you raise him – raise him with love, Hermione," Ginny implored. "He needs you. You've come this far, you can't abandon him now."

"Tom Riddle was raised in an orphanage, and look what that did to him," Harry added. "If his mum had loved him – well you know what I mean."

Hermione turned her gaze to the window again, looking into the distance. "When – when I found out – you know, found out that he was coming, all of you asked me why I didn't just – just terminate him. And I told myself it was because he was alive, and he couldn't choose how he was made, and I couldn't justify ending one act of violence with another. And if I'd killed this baby, I would be no better than - " she could not say his name, "I couldn't sink to _his_ level because that would mean he had won. But – I was foolish – because I thought that it would be so easy to – to just give him to someone else, because I would hate him – and it would be so easy – but, God, I was so wrong."

Harry put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"I love him, God, I love him, and I hate myself for loving him because he's a constant reminder that – and I _tried_, Ginny, I tried to tell myself to hate him, and I tried so hard I almost believed it. And now, I can't let him go. Why, Ginny, _why?_"

She looked down again at the infant in her arms, mesmerized by his bright wide eyes as his small hand wrapped around her finger.

"Why did he have to be so perfect?" She said. "So perfect, in this – this terrible, turbulent time. I want to keep him safe from it all."

"We've won the war, Hermione. He's going to grow up in a beautiful world."

-x-x-x-

A/N: Or so they think…! Yes, I realize that the normal gestation period is nine months, but oftentimes people give birth early, and this is one of those cases. So the gist is that by 2001, Harry Potter has defeated the Death Eaters, and the Ministry is back in good hands, but the Death Eaters are still out there waiting for the right moment to strike. Stay tuned for the next chapter which will pick up several years in the future! Leave a review! Thanks!


	2. Chapter 1: Numb

A/N: Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers – you brighten my day! So…about this chapter…I'm not too familiar with the law system (I'm a bio major!), especially British law, but I tried my best so please bear with me!

-x-

- Chapter One -

_Numb_

-x-

"_Unbelievable!_" Hermione slapped the folder down onto Harry's desk, and he nearly jumped out of his seat. "Did you know about this?"

He didn't even have to look at the file to know what it contained. It could only be one thing – something that he knew would be the talk of the day, plastered over newspapers for weeks to come.

-x-x-x-

Name: Draco Augustus Malfoy

Gender: Male

Date of Birth: June 5, 1980

Criminal charges: 38 accounts of murder, 24 accounts of manslaughter, 58 accounts of assault, 32 counts of torture, 17 counts of kidnapping, destruction of property, use of magic on Muggles, cruelty to Muggles, use of the Imperius Curse, use of Avada Kadavra, Use of the Cruciatus Curse

Sentence: Pending trial

-x-x-x-

"I'm so sorry, Hermione." Harry sighed wearily and rubbed his temples. "I only found out because I've been in this office since last night. You didn't read the _Prophet_? It was all over the news this morning. I thought you would have known. I stopped by your office earlier this morning but I couldn't find you…"

He picked up the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ on the edge of his desk and tossed it in her direction. The headline read –

-x-x-x-

DEATH EATER DRACO MALFOY SURRENDERS TO MINISTRY

In a surprising turn of events, Draco Malfoy, noted Death Eater, surrendered to the Ministry early this morning. Malfoy is responsible for countless crimes against the Muggle population and usage of the Unforgivable Curses. He was a leader in the Death Eater coup that overthrew the Ministry in 1997, although the full extent of his involvement is still unknown. After their defeat by the resistance led by Harry Potter in late 2000, Malfoy was reported to be missing. His whereabouts since then have been unclear.

Malfoy was taken into Ministry custody after he was spotted at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. When approached by Ministry officials who were tipped off by several worried bystanders at the hospital who recognized him, he confirmed his identity.

He issued an official apology early this morning at the Ministry's headquarters: "I am deeply sorry for the crimes I have committed. I am ashamed and embarrassed of my past actions. I cannot express the great remorse I feel over what I have done. I only hope that the Wizarding community is willing to forgive me for my childhood errors and indiscretions."

He has since then cooperated fully with the law enforcement team.

"We are confident that Mr. Malfoy's genuine remorse will be apparent during his trial, and that the Wizarding population will be open to forgiveness," says Blaise Zabini, the head of Malfoy's defense team. "The Malfoy family has historically been a prominent model of excellence in the Wizarding World, known for their philanthropic contributions, a tradition which Mr. Malfoy, as the sole heir, will undoubtedly continue."

Ministry officials remain skeptical about his intentions.

"We must approach this situation with all caution," says Knightley Shacklebolt, the current Minister of Magic. "Death Eater factions are still alive underground, and this could very well be a ploy to infiltrate the Ministry."

Others, however, are more optimistic.

"In this time of rebuilding, trust is absolutely vital. Mr. Malfoy's apology is undoubtedly sincere and his presence in our newly rebuilt Wizarding community will be indispensible," says Millicent Bulstrode, a member of the International Magical Cooperation committee, who attended Hogwarts with Draco Malfoy.

Mr. Harry Potter, the head of the Department of Aurors and the defeater of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, was unavailable for comment. Mr. Malfoy's sentence will be decided by the Wizengamot today, in a trial that will begin late this afternoon. Both the defense and the prosecution have summoned a vast number of witnesses and professionals, and the trial is expected to be one of the longest in the century. The Ministry anticipates a full courtroom; the trial is not open to the public. Story is continued on page 5.

-x-x-x-

Hermione shook her head in disgust as she skimmed the paper. "He's going to rot in Azkaban for the rest of his life."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Harry said uneasily.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione said, dropping the paper back onto his desk.

"Rumor are flying that gold has exchanged hands, if you catch my drift."

"I can't believe this!" Hermione paced his office. "The Ministry is barely back on its feet and its already succumbing to corruption? I refuse to believe it."

"He wouldn't turn himself in if he didn't know he could weasel out of it. And he's got Zabini leading his defense team."

"We've got mountains of evidence against him, literally piles of cases, there's no possible way he could walk out of the Wizengamot a free man."

"Don't put your faith in the integrity of the new Ministry." Harry leaned back into his chair and sighed. "I always thought it would be so easy – after defeating Voldemort – that everything else would just fall into place. But this new Ministry – it wasn't what I'd hoped, wasn't what I wanted."

She propped herself onto the edge of his desk. "Is this what we helped build, Harry? Is this what our sweat and blood went into? _This?_ This – this corruption? Is this what - " she swallowed " - what Ron died for?"

"You think I haven't been mulling over this for the past few hours – since the moment I learned of it? With all the Death Eater factions still out there, gaining strength, waiting to strike, it would be a grave mistake to acquit him. Anyone can see that. There's no one I blame more than myself, Hermione."

"I can't stand back and watch the new Ministry sink to this level."

"They hardly care about my opinion anymore," he said. "What are _you_ going to do?"

"I'm on the prosecution team," Hermione stated as-a-matter-of-factly.

"_What?_"

"Langdon is leading the team, and he asked me to be on it," she said, shrugging her shoulders in feigned carelessness. "And I agreed."

"Have you gone raving mad? That's the worse idea you've ever come up with, Hermione Granger!"

She pursed her lips stubbornly. "It's perfectly reasonable. I'm one of the most capable attorneys in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and I want to make sure he pays for his crimes."

"You're only going to get hurt."

"Don't be silly, Harry," she said. "There's no reason to think that."

"You can't expect to win if you're going to make it personal, Hermione. That's not going to win over the Wizengamot. You have to be strategic – and _can_ you be – when you see him?"

"It's not personal," she lied through clenched teeth. "I just want to see that monster…that monster get what he deserves."

"You know what I'm talking about."

"No, Harry, _I don't_, and I think you ought to give it a rest."

"Hermione, I may need glasses but I'm not blind! You'd never admit it, but what, you don't think that I'd have noticed that my godson has an uncanny resemblance to - "

"I can take care of myself, Harry," she snapped.

"So you're telling me you're going to walk in there and _look him in the face?_ You're telling me that you can do that?"

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"_Excuse me_, Harry, I have to get back to my department for preparations," she said. "We have a trial to win."

"You don't have to pretend to be so brave, Hermione," he said as she turned to leave his office.

She stopped in her tracks.

"I don't have a choice. I _need_ to do this, Harry," she said firmly. "I want to see him, the moment they read his sentence, the moment he realizes that he's going to spend the rest of his life in Azkaban. I want to – _I need to_ – see them put him away, Harry. All these years, the only thing that's kept me sane is knowing that one day he would pay for what he's done – to our world – to our lives – to people I care about…to Ron…" She bit her lip and set her gaze on the window. "…_To me_."

"Merlin, Hermione, why are you doing this to yourself?" Harry exclaimed, his voice heavy with concern.

"Closure." She sighed. "I need closure."

-x-x-x-

"Don't look so frightened, Hermione, we've got a good case," Connor Langdon said cheerfully in response to the trepidation evident in Hermione's eyes. He was a charming man his early thirties who had risen quickly in Law Enforcement for his quick wit and uncanny ability win over the Wizengamot.

"I hope so," Hermione said. "I sure hope so."

"Oh, come on, put on a smile for me," he said. "You've always been so ever annoyingly confident and outspoken, you can take down Blaise Zabini any day."

They walked down the hallway toward Courtroom One, the only courtroom in the new makeshift Ministry headquarters. The other members of the prosecution team were already 

waiting for them – they were lagging behind because Hermione had left some files back in her office and Langdon was kind enough to help her fetch them. As she approached the courtroom's massive oak double doors, her heart began to quicken, and she glanced around nervously, frightened that perhaps he would appear out of any corner. She regretted wearing a knee-length dress suit to work that day - her knees trembled with such fervor she could hardly put one foot ahead of the other, and she hoped Connor Langdon would not notice. Hermione willed herself to keep her cool composure – she would show _him_ that he had no power over her, that she was not so weak as to succumb to her fear.

Langdon reached for the door, pulled it back, and held it open for her as she took one last breath and stepped across the threshold.

She saw him as soon as she stepped into the courtroom. He was turned so that his back faced her, far beyond the rows of seats at the front of the crowded courtroom, but even so, she could recognize him anywhere. She saw that familiar white-blond hair, clean cut as always, and his tall, aristocratic posture. His suit was freshly pressed, reflecting his innate sophistication, and he stood unbelievably calm and collected facing the Wizengamot. She could almost feel his rough hands touching her, hurting her again, and she shivered from the thought.

His head turned slightly as he spoke to Blaise Zabini, and she caught a view of his profile and those steel grey eyes. Terror and panic seized her body, and she gripped onto the aisle of seats for support. She hated herself for being so weak, for letting him exert this power over her. She was positive that everyone in the room could hear the deafening 'thump thump' of her heart as it raced in her chest, frightened that it would give her away. Everyone would know - they would know how _dirty_ she was, what _she_ had done, because even after all these years, she couldn't stop telling herself that it was _her_ fault. She couldn't let them know - they would hate her – for being so dirty, so weak. She inhaled deeply, and willed her pounding heart to stop racing. A sudden wave of nausea engulfed her, and she closed her eyes, hoping for it to pass.

"Hermione?" Langdon watched her with a concerned expression. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

Connor Langdon put a friendly hand on her shoulder, and she flinched at his touch, curling her shoulders away from him.

"I'm sorry, Langdon," she said. "I can't do this –"

She despised her weakness; Harry was right – she didn't have the strength to face him, even after all these years. She couldn't look at him without losing her composure, and she feared what would happen he saw her – that he would see the irrevocable harm he had done, that she would forever be in his power. She could never be free of him.

"Can't do what?"

"This – I'm sorry, this was a mistake – I can't be a part of this team."

"What?" he said, taken aback. "I thought you wanted to – you're one of the best we've got, Hermione. And we'll be short one member."

She focused hard on keeping the bile from rising in her throat. "I've completely overcommitted myself. I'm sorry. I have to go."

Without further explanation, she brushed past him and rushed out of the courtroom. She didn't know where she was going until she suddenly found herself in the lavatory, hunched over the toilet. As another wave of nausea hit, she vomited the entire contents of that morning's breakfast.

Fresh tears blurred her vision as she choked and cried and coughed, feeling dirty and disgusted by her own behavior, which confirmed her failures. She stayed like this, hunched over the toilet for what seemed like an eternity, until she had no more tears to cry and her empty stomach ceased its lurching. She wiped her face with a tissue, and gagged at the sour taste in her mouth. Gathering her thoughts, she picked herself up and made her way to the sink, where she splashed cold water over her face.

Her whole body twitched unpleasantly, and she forced herself to breathe deep, even breaths. _Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…_

No, this couldn't ever happen again, she told herself. She had to be strong – that was the only way she could win – the only way she could be rid of him forever. But she didn't know how, and she didn't care, and she only knew that she never wanted to see him ever again.

By the time she had composed herself and entered the viewing room where the journalists were situated, opening statements were over, and the trial was in motion.

-x-x-x-

_Malfoy vs. Ministry Trial Part III_

"The defense requests that Muggle testimony be exempt from the trial," said Blaise Zabini. "The Muggles have undergone significant memory modifications, and therefore are not fit to testify."

"We can use spells to recover their memories," Langdon said. "As Muggles were unarguably the main targets of Death Eaters, their testimony is critical to this trial."

"Recovered memories are less than fifty percent accurate, and in the interest of truth and veracity, they cannot be used."

"Then they are fifty percent correct as well!" Langdon argued. "To remove their testimony would be a great breach of justice!"

"As much as I sympathize with the prosecution, I am obliged to agree with Mr. Zabini," said the Chief Warlock. "In the interest of finding truth, strike out all testimony involving memory recovery."

-x-x-x-

_Malfoy vs. Ministry Trial Part VI_

"Ms. Theresa McCall, can you recount for us the events of September 13th, 1998?"

"I – I was in my bedroom, sleeping, and I woke up because I heard a commotion outside. And I heard screaming, so I went to see what the matter was, and I saw – I saw – him torturing my dad, and I saw my mum on the ground and she was bleeding…and she wasn't moving. And I saw my sister run out of her room with her wand, and he strangled her – and – and I didn't know what to do, so I hid behind the door and watched him – watched him kill my dad."

"Is the man who killed your parents in this courtroom right now?"

She nodded.

"Can you please point to him so that the Wizengamot can see?"

She swallowed nervously, and pointed a trembling finger in Draco Malfoy's direction.

"Thank you Ms. McCall," said Jeremy Bones, returning to his seat by Langdon. "The prosecution rests."

Blaise rose from the other side of the courtroom, and approached the frightened girl.

"Ms. McCall, can you describe to the Wizengamot the man that you saw in your home on the night of September 13th?"

"Uh…he…he was wearing black…and he had a hood over his head...and he was wearing a mask."

"He was wearing a mask, Ms. McCall?

"Yes," she said nervously.

"So you didn't see his face?"

"I saw his hair and I recognize his voice and - "

"But you didn't actually see his face?"

"No, but - "

"Ms. McCall, did you actually see Mr. Malfoy at your home?"

"I know it was him!"

"How old are you, Ms. McCall?"

"I'm thirteen."

"So that must mean you were four years old when the crime occurred, am I right?"

"Five," she corrected, seethingly.

"Can you please tell me if there were any natural disasters occurring during that year, Ms. McCall."

"No…I don't remember."

"You're telling me that you don't remember the hurricane of 1998, the one that nearly flooded your town?"

"No…"

"But you remember the night of your family's attack?"

"Yes! I couldn't forget something like that."

"Do your aunts often talk to you about the attack?"

"Yes."

"So it's entirely possible that your memories of the attack are false memories that you created from the stories your aunts have told you?"

"No! I remember what happened."

"But you couldn't remember the hurricane, so would you say you have a difficult time recalling events occurring during the age of five, Ms. McCall."

"_Yes, but not that!_"

"This is a letter from your headmistress to your aunts dated two years ago. Ms. McCall, can you please read this letter to the Wizengamot." He withdrew a folded piece of parchment and handed it over to her.

She unfolded the parchment hesitantly and began: "'Your niece, Theresa McCall, is guilty of violating more than ten of the school's rules. She has a history of pathological lying, and if this behavior does not change, I will have no choice but to expel her.'"

"That's different!" she said angrily.

Blaise turned to the Interrogators and the Chief Warlock. "Shall we believe the testimony of this young girl, of an event that occurred nearly ten years ago when she was barely five years old – a girl who her headmistress describes as having 'a history of pathological lying'?"

-x-x-x-

_Malfoy vs Ministry Trial Part XI_

"Mr. Jonah Adams, please state your occupation."

"I am a certified psychologist, my emphasis of study is social behavior, especially concerning criminal behavior." The stubby man in the witness chair loosened his tie uncomfortably.

"Can you please tell me about the studies you have conducted regarding the effect of the environment on a child's growth."

"The environment that a child grows up in shapes his or her beliefs and actions and has a profound effect of who he becomes later in life."

"Would you say that parental views influence their children as well?" Blaise questioned.

"Oftentimes, children are pressured by their parents to act or think a certain way."

"Is there any way for a child to avoid this influence from their parents?"

The witness shook his head. "Generally speaking, no. A child learns from an early age to obey his parents, and thus follows their actions as well."

"Do you believe that children should be punished for their parents' ideals?"

"Absolutely not."

"In Mr. Malfoy's case, do you agree that he was raised in an environment that promoted the abuse of Muggles, in other words, would you say that he was product of his environment?"

"Yes, his parents' anti-muggle sentiments shaped the way he viewed the world."

"Can these sentiments change?"

"In many instances, under the right influence, once children are full-grown, they do change their sentiments and think for themselves."

"Thank you, Mr. Adams. Could you now please tell us a little bit about your research concerning group crime?"

"Emotions, thoughts, ideas, and the like are all heightened in a group setting, which encourages members act in way that they would not do if they were acting alone."

"Is is possible that Mr. Malfoy was unable to control his behavior, that he was pressured into muggle-hating rituals and behaviors by those whom he considered his friends?"

"Yes, it's very possible."

-x-x-x-

"Hermione!" Langdon peeked into the viewing room. "I thought I'd find you here."

"Connor!" she said, turning around startled. "What's the matter?"

"Tracy's aunt just passed away, she just got the notice and had to leave, we really need someone to step in," he said, pulling her aside out of earshot of the journalists. "The next witness…she would prefer…would like a female attorney to question her…it would make her more comfortable. And since Tracy's gone, d'you think..."

Hermione shrugged herself out of his grip. "I really don't think I should, Connor - "

"We need you. Zabini's killing us out there." His blue eyes begged.

Her first instinct was to refuse because she knew that she could never face Draco Malfoy again. She couldn't focus, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except _panic_ if they were in the same room. The primeval fear that accosted her even at the mere mention of his name was too much to bear, much less the sheer terror of having to stand in the same courtroom, barely twenty feet away from the man she had hated for as long.

But a voice in the back of her head went against all her instincts and urged her on. She knew that this was the only way to defeat him, the only way she could find closure after all these years living in shame and guilt and fear and pain. This was the only way she could move on with her life.

She told herself that she was relatively calm now, her knees were no longer shaking, and even her breathing had evened out. Maybe this was her chance to prove herself wrong – that she was indeed strong enough to overcome her fears.

"So how about it?"

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Hermione nodded, telling herself that she could do this; she could overcome this wretched fear.

"Okay, all right, I'll do it," she said.

He smiled brilliantly, and the warmth on his face calmed her nerves. "Thanks."

"I'll see what I can do," she said bravely. "Let me take a look at her file."

It was only after she glanced at the file that Hermione regretted ever agreeing to Langdon's plea. But it was too late now, and she would have to move forward no matter what.

-x-x-x-

_Malfoy vs Ministry Trial Part XV_

"The prosecution calls Ms. Elizabeth Sanders to the witness stand." The terror in her voice was barely noticeable as she stepped into the front of the courtroom from the side door adjoined to the viewing room. She kept her eyes away from the other side of the courtroom, telling herself that as long as she didn't have to see him, she could convince herself that he was not there.

As the young woman found her seat in the witness's chair, Hermione felt oddly uncomfortable, knowing that all eyes were on her – including _his_. The courtroom – which had always been her strongest element since she'd begun working at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was now a place of undiluted fear. She had never felt more vulnerable in her life than standing there, so exposed in front of the court. Her legs felt like jello, and she willed them not to give away. The folder holding the files in her left hand shook, mimicking her trembling hands.

She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and began.

"Ms. Sanders, can you tell us what happened on the night of July 3, 2000?"

His eyes were burning holes into her skin – she could feel it. She could feel him around her, in the very air that she breathed.

"I was in Diagon Alley. My cousin was getting married and she wanted me to be her maid of honor, so I was at Madam Malkin's getting fitted for a gown. We heard screaming outside, and the next thing I knew, we were surrounded by Death Eaters."

_His hands were on her, moving roughly against her thigh. His lips were on her collarbone, moving downwards precariously._ Hermione stifled a terrified cry.

"Can you please tell us what happened next?"

"I – I tried to hide – but they – they took me into a back room and – " she broke down. "I'm sorry."

The familiar scent of him wafted her senses – that mix of sweat and blood and power, and her heart raced against her chest.

"It's okay, Ms. Sanders. You may take your time."

"They – they said that they were going to punish me…because I was in their way and I was a half-blood – and they – they tied me to a table," she wiped the tears that flooded her cheeks, "and then – and then – "

"What happened next, Ms. Sanders?" It was barely more than a whisper.

"He – he raped me." She buried her face in her hands and shook with sobs. "I was only fifteen years old. How could he do that?"

"What happened after this?"

_His rough hands attacked her, holding her own hands back. She felt him inside of her again, the pain fresh in her mind, and she willed herself not to scream._

"After…after he finished…he – he passed me off to the other Death Eaters…and he told them…that they could…have fun…with me – and they – they raped me." She squeezed her eyes shut. "One by one and then again and again and…"

"Can you identify the man who did this to you?"

"Yes," she said. "He's sitting over there."

She pointed and stared directly in his direction, but Hermione refused to turn her eyes from the witness, fearing even the quickest peripheral glance of him. She was sure her legs would give away if she saw him – saw those cruel grey eyes. She felt pitiful and useless seeing this little girl in front of her who could face her attacker with the courage Hermione herself could not muster, and she hated herself for it.

"Thank you, Ms. Sanders." Hermione turned to Blaise. "Your witness."

She had not meant to see him – but her eyes could not help but brush past him as she turned around to take her seat by Langdon.

For the first time in seven years, Hermione Granger came face to face with Draco Malfoy. Their eyes locked for the briefest moment, hers wide and fearful, and his, the same steely grey that gave nothing away. Her first instinct was to look away as she felt that familiar lurch in her stomach, but her curiosity got the best of her, and she studied him for a moment longer. He looked older, perhaps even more refined, and his aristocratic features had not softened. But he resembled Harry in a way – aged far beyond his years, solemn, and eyes with a hint of weariness in them, that spoke of a childhood lost too soon. The war had damaged everyone. For a moment, she almost pitied him.

She tore her eyes away, but his followed her to her seat.

As she took her seat, fresh tears assaulted her, and she worked to blink them back. But they weren't of fear or terror or shame – because all she wanted to do was to break out and laugh and cry and laugh and cry. She was exhilarated with a sense of newfound freedom - she had held her own against Draco Malfoy, and although it wasn't much, it was the first step toward taking her life back. With time, she could be whole again, not the broken, frail creature she had been the last few years of her life.

She sat up in her seat with renewed resolve, watching Zabini question the witness, only remotely aware of the uncomfortable feeling of _his_ eyes on her.

"Ms. Sanders, you said that Death Eaters entered the store. How did you know that they were Death Eaters?"

"Well, they were wearing black cloaks, and they were hooded, and they wore these awful masks."

"Did they tell you they were Death Eaters?"

"No! But I know what Death Eaters look like."

"Isn't it possible that they might have been ordinary citizens posing as Death Eaters? Isn't it possible that you could have mistaken them for Death Eaters?"

"No! I know what I saw!"

"Did you hear them say anything that might prove they were Death Eaters?"

"Just something about finding someone…"

"So they gave you no indication, never said anything that might make you think they were Death Eaters beside the fact that they cloaked and hooded and masked, is that right?"

"Yes, but - "

"Did they at any time remove their masks?"

"No."

"Then how is it that you were able to recognize Mr. Malfoy as your attacker?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. "I remember his eyes. I could never forget his eyes."

"Can you please describe his eyes for the Wizengamot?"

"They're – they're _grey_."

Hermione shut her eyes tight, reliving a memory that she wanted to erase forever.

"Ah, grey, I see. Are you aware that twenty-three percent of the English population possesses grey eyes, Ms. Sanders?"

"I wouldn't forget _his_ eyes, I remember it like it was yesterday."

"You can be so sure, after nearly ten years, to identify him by merely his eyes without any margin of error?"

"You try forgetting something like that!"

"Do you have DNA evidence to support your claim, Ms. Sanders?"

"No, I didn't think of it at the time."

"So the only evidence you have against Mr. Malfoy is that he has grey eyes?"

Hermione saw those grey eyes appraise her out of the corner of her own – and turned her face slightly to meet his unwavering gaze. The look in his eyes overwhelmed her, and she looked away quickly, before he could see the vulnerability in her eyes.

-x-x-x-

"We're being slaughtered out there." Langdon paced the small room.

Jeremy Bones stepped up. "Where's Conklin? And Meade? They were our most important witnesses. They should be here by now!"

"Conklin is dead."

"_What?_" Hermione said.

"Heart attack, the medical examiners say. No sign of foul play…but I'm not so sure. There's spells that can mimic a heart attack…"

"I can't believe this is happening." Hermione said, shocked. Draco Malfoy's methods had not changed over the years. He was still the monster she had always known. "And Meade?"

"Meade refuses to testify." Connor Langdon sighed. "Under the circumstances, I can hardly blame him."

"Unless we provide some real evidence, this doesn't look so good for us," said Harold Goldstein.

"They're going to have Malfoy testify – under Veritaserum to convince the Interrogators and entire court of his innocence."

"But Veritaserum's effects can be broken just like the Imperius Curse, and Malfoy would surely know how!"

"So what do we do?"

"Try our best and see how it plays out." Langdon sighed like a man who knew he was fighting a losing battle. "Recess is almost over, we should get back."

The four of them filed out of the cramped room and back to their table on the left side of the courtroom.

As she made her way back to her seat, Harry caught her arm and pulled her aside.

"Are you going to testify?"

"What? No, absolutely not," she hissed, furrowing her eyebrows. "And if you speak any louder, everyone will be able to hear you! I have nothing to say. There's nothing I could possibly say that could turn this trial around."

"You're going to lose this trial, Hermione."

She ignored him. "Look at what happened to Elizabeth Sanders, Harry. Zabini's right, she has no evidence but her word against his, and neither do I."

Harry threw his hand into the air. "Hermione, you have a living, breathing testament of Draco Malfoy's crimes!"

"_Stop it_, Harry," she fired back. "I'm not going to entangle my son in this. I promised that I would never jeopardize his well-being."

"And you think you'd be better off letting Malfoy walk the streets again? If there is anyone who can bring Draco Malfoy to his knees, it's you, Hermione," he implored.

"I have to protect my son."

"Protect your son? _Or protect yourself?_"

She was shocked at the brutal honestly of his words, but even more so because she saw the truth in them, and replied coldly, "You should get back to your seat, the trial is starting."

-x-x-x-

_Malfoy vs. Ministry Trial Part XXII_

"Have you ever engaged in muggle hate crimes?"

"Yes, when I was young."

"Do you believe that Muggles are inferior to wizards?"

"Absolutely no, not anymore," he said. "Those childish sentiments I've put behind me now."

He appeared more like honorable nobility than cold-blooded criminal as Zabini questioned him in front of the court. His face was solemn when he had to be, eyes downcast at just the right moments, voice tinged with false remorse. And the members of the court played right into his hands.

"Have you ever used the Unforgivable Curses?"

"Only in practice. I would never use an Unforgivable on a human being."

"Mr. Malfoy, have you ever committed murder?"

"No."

And then -

"Have you ever committed rape?"

Hermione glanced up, jarred by the question.

"No," he said calmly, staring fixedly into her eyes. There was no remorse, no guilt, no regret.

She nearly choked, disgusted at the way he could lie and be so unaffected. The ease with which he could lie so blatantly about something that had left her so broken, suffering so long after their encounter, enraged her. It belittled the suffering she had endured, the burden of shame she had carried all these years. She hated his innate charm, the charisma that allowed him to so effortlessly lure the Interrogators in and trap them in his web of deceit. There was nothing she wanted more than to see him die.

She could barely bring herself to hear the rest of his testimony. It took every fiber in her body to stay planted in her seat, when all she wanted was to get out of that dirty courtroom that was being contaminated by his filthy lies.

-x-x-x-

It was the moment of truth.

The case had been presented, and Langdon had just returned to her side after finishing with a brilliantly delivered concluding argument. Draco Malfoy was facing the Interrogators, still as unfazed and confidently calm as ever.

The Chief Warlock cleared his throat.

"Will the Interrogators who believe the defendant guilty please raise their red flags, and those who believe the defendant innocence raise their white flags?"

Slowly, a mosaic of red and white sprung up over the Interrogation Panel. It was too close to call, and Hermione shut her eyes in anticipation.

The Chief Warlock cleared his throat again.

"The Wizengamot officially pronounces Mr. Draco Augustus Malfoy a free citizen of the Wizarding World."

For a moment, Hermione Granger couldn't believe what she had heard, thinking that her ears were playing tricks on her. But as the courtroom erupted around her, denial ebbed into disappointment that finally transformed into sheer terror. As the shocking verdict finally sunk in, the world seemed to crash in on her and she felt numb – numb from shock or dismay or fear she didn't know, just so numb she couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't feel.

She was faintly aware that she was standing, and there were people moving hurriedly around her, but she couldn't find the strength to move her feet, which seemed planted, like deadweights on the marble floor. All she saw were blurs of color around her engulfing her, and then someone was saying her name, and then Harry was beside her, and all of a sudden she was out of the courtroom, his arms wrapped protectively around her, shielding her from the chaos.

-x-x-x-

"Will he live?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy, but his prognosis is poor," the healer said, a solemn expression on her face, as she glanced down at the sleeping boy on the bed. "You are not a match."

"Can you find one?"

"We're doing the best we can," she said nervously, aware of whom she was dealing with. "But usually family members are the best bet. Perhaps his mother, then?"

"My wife is dead." His face remained ever stoic.

The healer bit her lip when she realized her grave mistake. "Oh, I'm sorry."

"Is there anything else you can do?" It was more a demand than a question.

"We're cross-referencing his blood to the entire wizard registry in our database, but the chance of an unrelated match is slim."

"How long does he have?" In a rarely seen display of affection, he placed a gentle hand on the small boy's fair hair that so resembled his own.

"A week, two at most."

"And with a transplant?"

"We expect a full recovery."

Draco Malfoy's mouth twitched dangerously.

"Then find him a goddamn match, and find it soon."

-x-x-x-

A/N: So in case you're wondering, the reason why they were wearing Muggle suits and not wizarding robes is because in the war, while they were in hiding, they had to dress like Muggles in order to not be noticed, and so they've all become kind of used to it, although they are in the process of transitioning back into old customs and traditions. In the next chapter, the plot should actually get rolling. Drop a review to tell me what you think! Thanks!


	3. Chapter 2: Encounter

A/N: Okay, so I'm aware that a lot of the stuff is medically inaccurate, but I'm just going to go along with it because it works out better in this story, hehe. Also, thanks to everybody who reviewed!

-x-

- Chapter Two -

_Encounter_

-x-

The wealthy members of the vintage Pureblood lines were not very nice people. In fact, "not very nice" was a bit of a stretch. They were arrogant, deceitful, and downright malicious. Theirs was an elite society unrivaled in splendor, founded on nobility of birth and the persistence of their enduring, refined traditions. The same passion of power and ambition coursed through their veins, sustained by the innumerable riches heaped in their Gringotts vaults.

They boasted of the purity of their blood, the strength of its magic undiluted throughout the centuries. Inbreeding between the families promised new generations of blood as pure as the last, and created a mosaic of bloodlines as each family's blood intertwined with the others. Although many of the families had withered out since the days of old, a strong few remained to ensure the survival of their narrow-minded ideals. Inarguably, they did have their moments of charity, and although this tactic was usually employed for ulterior motives, the Wizarding world nevertheless benefited from these philanthropic contributions.

Believing themselves superior in every way, they took it upon themselves to assert their presence in all matters, oftentimes employing vicious methods to assure the execution of their wishes. They kept to their exclusive circle, meandering out occasionally to fraternize with others only when it was absolutely necessary or advantageous. Although pompous and self-centered, they were loyal to each other and to the customs that bound them together. However, with all being said and done, they were a downright cruel, self-indulgent, and elitist bunch. And Draco Malfoy was the worst of them.

Lavished in greatness since the moment of his birth, he was raised to believe that he was above all others. He was a difficult child – nothing was ever good enough to satisfy him, and his frustrated nanny had a particularly hard time assuaging him, although she was very affectionate towards the child. Inheriting his father's good looks and his charms, Draco became an incorrigible womanizer from an early age, much to his mother's chagrin. Although she did not know the full extent of his extracurricular activities, she was not blind to his many escapades and indiscretions.

Draco Malfoy might have had his various dalliances with other women, but he had a particular soft spot for Astoria Greengrass, his lovely wife. The Greengrass family was a renowned pureblood line with impeccable ancestry, and although they did not dapple as deeply into the Dark Arts as others, they were well respected in their elite circle, and were quite famous throughout the generations for the extraordinary beauty of their daughters. Thus, at Astoria's birth, Lucius had quickly offered a proposal of marriage on his infant son's behalf, and before Draco could walk, had secured a wife for his son.

Astoria was the younger of the two Greengrass daughters, and the more gifted of the two. She excelled in school and in the arts, especially in painting, and she also had a profound love of music. She was well-bred, as any Greengrass daughter, and somewhat quiet and reserved. She had hardly known Draco Malfoy, who was two years her senior, during her Hogwarts years. Besides the occasional glimpses of the tall, handsome boy, as he traipsed around the Slytherin common room with various other female students, she hardly saw him at all, much less interacted with him. All she knew was that he was the boy she would eventually marry, and that suited her just fine.

Draco was also well aware of their arranged marriage, yet he made no indication of it and ignored her for the better part of six years, primarily to spite his parents. He knew that he was expected to marry her after they both graduated, but had no intention to wed anyone so early, and was quite unenthusiastic towards the prospect. Although he had oftentimes noticed her beauty, he refused to acknowledge her - if he was to spend the rest of his life with her, well, at least he would use the last years of his freedom pursuing other women before he was tied down with her.

After the Death Eaters' attack shortly after his seventh year, which dismantled Hogwarts, Draco found himself trapped into marriage even earlier than he had anticipated. It was agreed between Lucius and her father that they would wed after her graduation, but with Hogwarts closed down, the two families saw no reason that the two of them should not wed sooner. Their wedding had been spectacular, and although she was well aware of Draco's rapport with women in the past, she had no doubt that her beauty and her charm could keep her husband faithful. And indeed it did – Draco became besotted with her – she had an extraordinary mind, which Draco rarely found in the women he dallied with - and it enthralled him. They welcomed the birth of their son at the most auspicious of times.

Unfortunately, the war put an end to their happy marriage. When Harry Potter's forces took down the Death Eaters' reign, Astoria had gone missing in the ensuing scramble. Although they never found a body, she was officially declared dead, but Draco nevertheless hoped that she was still alive somewhere out there. His numerous affairs aside, it was only after he lost her that he realized how much he loved her, and the loss of her companionship devastated him.

Fatherhood had not changed Draco Malfoy. He was not any kinder, nor more compassionate than before. If anything, it made him more aggressive – he would do anything to protect his son, who held the last memory of his late wife. However, he hardly even saw the boy, who was put in the care of a nurse upon his birth, and never had the time or capability to demonstrate his affections for the child. But when his son had contracted the disease, which their healers had not been able to remedy, Draco had taken the irreversible step, leaving the hidden Death Eater camp, which had limited medical resources, to seek treatment for the boy.

That was why he was here, miles away from those whom he considered friends, standing by the hospital bedside, watching his young son succumb to the disease which no healer had yet been able to alleviate.

"Father, _it hurts_. Please, make it stop," the small boy mumbled feverishly. His hair was drenched in sweat and plastered to his pale face.

A barely perceptible wince flashed across his charged expression, the only indication of his mental anguish, and his eyes were fierce as he turned to the healers. "Why've you stopped his medications?"

"We're just giving him lower doses," the healer explained, clutching the side of her robes nervously. "His body can't –"

"_Increase it_."

"I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Malfoy," she replied. "The painkillers will damage his other organs if we keep him at such a high dose all the time, and then we'd be looking at multiple organ failure."

The boy tossed his head on the sweat-drenched sheets. "_It hurts, Father, it hurts_."

Draco's features were strained, but impassive. "What did I tell you about crying, Scorpius?"

The boy sniffed, wiping away his tears and trying to stifle his cries.

It certainly was not because Draco Malfoy didn't care about his boy or that he was intentionally insensitive that he regarded the child's reactions with such disdain. He had never been particularly good at displaying what he felt, and fatherly affection was no exception. Lucius was hardly a prime example of a father, and Draco had had no other role model to emulate. The first thing Lucius had taught him as a child was that crying was the ultimate sign of weakness, and therefore it was forbidden under in any circumstances. He had been instructed from an early age to compartmentalize whatever he might feel, instead allowing ambition and power drive his very being. At first it was difficult, especially as a child. As he grew older, it became second nature. He kept everything hidden behind his unnervingly calm composure, so deep that even he wondered if he was capable of _feeling_. Emotion was weakness, and weakness could be exploited.

At that moment, another healer burst into the room, face flushed, and indicated for Draco Malfoy to follow him into the hospital corridor.

"Tell me you have good news," said Draco, as soon as they were out of earshot.

The Healer nodded hurriedly. "We've found a match."

The look of relief on his face was unmistakable. "You can save him? When can the transplant be done?"

"Mr. Malfoy, there's a problem," she said uneasily, unsure how to broach the subject.

"What kind of problem?"

"The match that we found – he's not entirely suitable…" the healer said. "He's only a child, in fact even younger than your son. He can't legally give consent."

"His family, then?"

"He has a mother."

"Then get _her_ permission." There was a dangerous urgency in his voice.

"It's not that easy…The procedure is risky, too risky," she said. "There's a good chance that both the donor and your son could die during the surgery. We just can't take those chances, Mr. Malfoy."

"If his parents gave consent, could you operate?"

"Mr. Malfoy, what you're asking for is completely irrational – "

"Could you do it or not?" he repeated forcefully. "I don't recall asking for your opinion. All I want to know is - if the family gives consent, can you perform the operation?"

The healer paused, and exhaled deeply, her eyes worn and weary. "Yes – "

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"I wouldn't get your hopes up," she argued, "- I honestly doubt any parents would subject their child to this. It's far too dangerous."

"_Get it done._"

The Healer bowed her head uneasily to avoid his deadly eyes. "I'll see what I can do."

-x-x-x-

"Watch me!" A little boy, hardly six years old, kicked off from the ground on his toy broomstick and zoomed in quick circles in the air, his blond hair shining in the morning sunlight, before landing on a tuft of green grass a few feet away.

"I'm better," said his companion, a boy with dark hair and emerald eyes.

"No, you're not!" said the boy with blond hair, his grey eyes dancing as he approached his friend.

"My takeoff is faster."

"My landing is smoother."

"Mine is newer," said the older of the two, indicating the shiny red broomstick he had gotten the last Christmas.

The blond boy was unfazed as he gripped his own toy broomstick. "Mummy says she'll buy me a real broomstick next year."

"My mummy says she'll buy me a real broomstick _next month_."

"You'll fall off!"

The dark haired boy crossed his arms. "Daddy says he'll teach me how to ride a real broomstick."

"Uncle Harry will teach _me_ too."

"I'm going to be the Gryffindor Quidditch Team seeker."

"I'm going to be the Gryffindor Quidditch Team _captain_."

Ginny Potter watched the two boys in their friendly fight from the patio table in the backyard, and chuckled, shaking her head mirthfully.

"Do you remember being that age?"

Hermione laughed. "My mum always said I was a horrible, testy child – that I'd always get in the most awful scrapes and she'd have to bake her famous blueberry muffins for the neighbors to apologize for my ruddy behavior. Of course, I hardly believe her." And then with a solemn expression on her face, she said, "I miss my mum."

"How long has it been?"

"Nearly ten years," Hermione said, her eyes downcast. "Sometimes I wish I could see how they were doing, you know, from a distance, just to make sure they were all right."

"Go see them, Hermione, even if it's only from a distance." Ginny peeled the orange in her hand. "We've been at peace now for nearly seven years. And Australia isn't too far away."

She shook her head. "I couldn't. If I saw them, I wouldn't ever be able to let them go. I have to protect them. As long as the Death Eater factions are still out there, they're not safe. It's better this way – that they have no connection whatsoever to me." Hermione's eyes glistened. "Besides, they don't even remember me. I made sure that."

"At least they're still alive, Hermione, be glad of that," said Ginny, whose own parents had been killed in a raid during the Death Eater coup so many years ago.

"Look what the war's done to us, Ginny – how many lives it's ruined." Hermione shook her head in disbelief, and then blinked back tears that threatened to fall. "I miss Ron."

"Me too," Ginny said, setting her hand on Hermione's. "We all do."

"Ginny," Hermione began, "Why did you marry Harry so quickly after graduation? You were both so _young_."

Her companion shrugged gently. "I knew we wouldn't have that much time together…Hermione, people were dying everywhere…I wasn't sure how long I'd live…but I knew that I wanted to spend every last minute with him…and I'd never forgive myself if I let that chance pass by."

"Ron asked me to marry him," Hermione blurted out before she could stop herself.

Ginny raised an eyebrow.

"I said no," she said, looking into the distance. "And it wasn't because I didn't love him – I loved him, more than anything, Ginny. But there was so much bloodshed going on…so much turmoil…I wanted our wedding to be happy, I wanted to wait until the war was over, after we'd won. I didn't want to marry him in the midst of all the war, all the fighting, all the dying."

Hermione glanced longingly toward the two boys playing in the yard.

"We were going to get married. Love each other. Have lots of children – Ron always said he wanted an entire quidditch team's worth. And then grow old together." She wiped a tear from her cheek. "Die together."

She had a faraway look in her eyes as she thought of how her life could have turned out, but a moment later she snapped out of her reverie. "Oh, but what am I talking about, it was so long ago!"

She wiped her face quickly, removing the last traces of the outbreak, although her eyes were still red.  
"Ethan, come finish the last bite of your sandwich!" she called toward the boy, who was speeding through the air with his friend.

"I'm not hungry!" came the hurried reply.

"Think of the starving children in Africa!"

"Mummy, you're going to make me lose!"

"_Now_, Ethan."

Groaning, the fair-haired boy landed on the ground, watching as his friend caught the toy snitch in the air.

"I won!" said the other boy.

"I'm still better than you, James," Ethan said stubbornly as he approached the two women at the table.

Frowning with anger at what he saw as complete unfairness, he stuffed the last bit of the sandwich into his mouth, chewing angrily, his grey eyes stormy as he glared at his mother.

James set his broomstick on the ground and joined Ethan at the table, taking a quick sip of lemonade.

"Look what you've done to your shirt, James!" Ginny exclaimed, pulling him to her and examining the state of his appearance.

"It's only a grass stain, mum."

She shook her head. "If you don't start behaving, I'll send you straight to boarding school - "

"There aren't any boarding schools around here - "

" - _in South America!_"

Ignoring his mother's empty threats, he turned to his friend to address the more pertinent issue at hand. "You can't be better than me. Everyone knows my daddy was the best quidditch player at Hogwarts."

"No, mine was!"

"You don't have a daddy!"

"Because he died in the war," Ethan offered. "My daddy was a hero. Right, Mummy?"

"Of course," Hermione said absent-mindedly as she wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin, having told the lie so many times she almost believed it herself.

The clock struck five, and Ginny groaned as she surveyed the clock hanging in under the veranda. "Harry practically lives at his office now – he hardly even makes it home for meals – it's like he's forgotten he has a family – and it's Sunday!"

"He works hard," Hermione agreed. "Too hard for his own good."

"You'd think he's forgotten that the war's over, the way he talks about the Death Eater factions out there!"

"He thinks – well – he wants us to prepare for an assault – he thinks the Death Eaters are planning one – and usually his senses turn out to be right."

"For everyone's sake, I do hope he's wrong this time," she said anxiously. "I just don't have it in me to fight another war, Hermione, especially with children in tow. James is six, but Lily's barely two – and if a war breaks out - and if anything happened to them – oh, I don't know what I'd do!"

"I haven't even had any time to think about that – I've been so busy with the Fawkins case – oh, I dread going to the office tomorrow – he's suing McNair for destruction of property – and McNair is taking him to court for theft – just _pathetic!_" Hermione said wearily. "There's been so much going on the last few weeks – Ethan practically lives here – I've been such a negligent mother - and I'm so grateful I have you, Ginny – and that you put all with all this."

"Oh, it's no bother," Ginny said with a wave of her hand. "You're family. And besides, James loves the company."

"I don't know how you do it!"

"And imagine – Harry wants another one –" Ginny shook her head, "- he's barely home long enough to kiss these two goodnight – and he wants another one! The nerve!"

"Never again – never again!" Hermione agreed, shaking her head fervently. She pulled Ethan to her playfully, placing a kiss on his head as he squirmed, clearly embarrassed in front of his friend, and tousled his hair. "This little one did a number on me!"

As the adults resumed their conversation, James pulled Ethan under the table to dig for worms.

"I heard my dad telling my mum that your daddy's a _'vile Iks-Use for a human bean and he's going to eat ma - gots in prison'_," James whispered, carefully trying to enunciate the words he didn't know.

Ethan wrinkled his face. "Liars go to Azkaban!"

Their conversation was interrupted by the sudden screech of an owl as it flew straight into the garden and dropped a sealed envelope into Hermione's lap.

"Who's it from?" Ginny asked curiously.

The two boys had fled the table and were now eagerly chasing the owl on their broomsticks.

Hermione glanced at the return address on the front. "It's from St. Mungo's."

"Probably asking for a donation," Ginny said as her companion tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside. "They're running low on funds, I know that much."

"Apparently, the Chief healer at St. Mungo's wants to see me immediately," Hermione said with a worried frown. "I wonder if it has to do with McCain's lawsuit – maybe it's something about the blotched operation on the Greer boy."

"I read about that in the paper," Ginny said with a wince. "He's all right now, isn't he?"

"As well as he can be, under the circumstances," Hermione replied, glancing at the letter again. "They were able to fix most of the damage, but obviously the boy's terribly traumatized from the experience."

Ginny shuddered. "I can only imagine."

"I better go see what this is about," Hermione said as she folded the letter in her hand. "Oi…just when I thought I'd get a break…"

"I'll watch the boys," Ginny offered quickly. "You can use the floo."

Hermione nodded, rising from her seat. "I'll be back before supper."

-x-x-x-

"Ms. Granger, please have a seat."

Hermione Granger nodded with a gracious smile and sat down primly in one of the large, cushioned chairs around the oval cherry wood table. She set her purse to the side of the table and folded her hands on her lap.

"What's this all about?" she began, looking inquisitively at the wizened man opposite her, who had introduced himself as George Lively, the Chief Healer of St. Mungo's Hospital.

George Lively removed a black leather file from his robes, setting it on the table between them and clasped his hands in front of him. "Are you familiar with Sanguis-Adversarium?'

Hermione frowned. "No…"

The healer sighed heavily. "It's a very rare disease, caused by infection of a deadly pathogen that resides in the blood and attacks the liver, and it leads to death within two fortnights."

"Yes…" Hermione said, unsure how to react or how this was of her concern, and then her eyes grew wide. "_Do I have this?"_

"No, no, not you," he assured her quickly, "but a patient at our hospital is infected. There is no spell to stop it, the only cure is to perform a risky procedure, I believe what Muggles would call a transplant."

"What kind of a transplant?"

"Liver," he responded. "For some types of blood, matching donors are particularly difficult, near impossible, to find – which is where you come in."

"A liver?" she said anxiously.

"Only part of it, really," he said. "The liver can regenerate, so only a portion of it is needed, and both the donor and the recipient can recover fully in the event of a successful operation."

"And without…without the donation, the patient would…"

" – _die_," he finished abruptly.

She contemplated his words for a brief moment and then nodded briskly. "I'll do it."

George Lively shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Ms. Granger…you must have misunderstood me." He paused hesitantly. "Your blood does not match."

Hermione stared at him, confusion written across her face. "Then what am I doing here?"

"The patient matches your son."

"_Ethan?_" she said incredulously. "He's hardly six years old! You can't possibly…"

"That's why we need your permission, Ms. Granger." He was unsure how to continue, but he pushed the leather file in her direction. "We've never used a child donor before, so it could be dangerous."

"How dangerous?" She took a brief glance at the consent form in the file.

"We estimate that the mortality rate could be fifty to seventy percent."

"Excuse me?" She rose from the chair, clearly shocked. "And you invited me here because you thought I'd agree to subject my son to this – this procedure that has a fifty to seventy percent mortality rate? _Are you insane?_"

"Our recipient party was very adamant that we proceed with the request."

"And you agreed?" Hermione wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at the sheer preposterousness of the idea. "This is ridiculous!"

"This patron has contributed much-needed funds to our hospital, and we value his loyalty. We are honoring his wishes by contacting you. Where we go from there is up you."

"I'm not going to risk my son to save anyone," she said firmly. "And you're completely insane if you ever thought I would - "

"I can assure you, Ms. Granger, I never came into this expecting to obtain your consent. I accept your decision. In fact, I don't think I would have chosen differently if I were you," George Lively said, although his eyes were melancholy. "I'm sorry to have caused you any discomfort or offended you. The other party was very adamant about proceeding through with this request, and I could not refuse to at least attempt it."

His pleasantly agreeable tone made her feel a sense of deep guilt. "It's not that I don't want to," she said, somewhat sympathetically. "I would give him half _my_ liver if I could. But I can't take those chances with my son, I'm dreadfully sorry."

"I fully understand, Ms. Granger. Thank you for taking the time to come down here."

Hermione nodded meekly and forced a weak smile. She knew she had just handed someone their death sentence, but at the same time, she was helpless to stop it, and it was a decision she could never forgive herself for. She clutched her purse in her hands and rose to leave, with the healer following suit. She was almost at the door of the conference room when she halted, then turned back to face the chief healer again.

"Can – can I see him?"

"Pardon me?"

"The patient, I mean," she said quietly. "Can I see him?"

"I don't know if that's a good idea, Ms. Granger," the healer replied. "I don't want to make this any harder for you."

"Please," she said, "could you let me see him? I…I just want him to understand why…" the sincerity in her voice was unmistakable, "…and I think it should come from me. Please, let me do this. Let me see him."

After a moment's hesitation, George said, "All right, Ms. Granger." He pushed one side of the double doors open, and indicated politely for her to step outside. "This is of course against hospital policy but…if you insist…please follow me."

They made their way down the echoing hallway, past busy healers and nurses clutching charts in their hands, until they reached the lift. He indicated for her to step inside, and he followed closely behind her. The healer punched the number for the fifth floor, and moments later they were moving up.

The atmosphere on this floor was strikingly different, Hermione noticed, as the lift's doors finally opened. It was not the pleasantly busy bustle of a hospital – it was quieter, darker, and it gave her a feeling of unease. The smell of death lingered on the healers who were moving in the hallways.

"This is the floor where our terminal patients stay," he explained, sensing her unease. He motioned for her to follow him down the hallway; they rounded a corner and stopped at one of many identical blue-gray doors.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Hermione hesitated for a moment, and then answered with noticeable difficulty, "Yes."

George Lively reached for the door handle, turned it, and held the door open for her as she stepped in ahead of him.

The room was fairly large – a long line of cupboards extended from one side of the wall to the other. Pale blue curtains were drawn around the bed, which hid most of the room from her view. The setting sun beamed into the room from the window, and a gentle breeze ruffled the curtains. The old healer stepped forward and drew the curtains to the side, revealing a hospital bed a tiny body tucked under the generic baby blue sheets.

Hermione gasped as she saw the small child on the bed, his eyes closed in sleep, an IV dripping into the back of his hand with two thin plastic tubes in his nose providing oxygen. She stepped forward to George's side and looked him questioningly in the eye. The healer answered her with a sad, despondent look. She opened her mouth to say something, but found herself unable to speak.

"He's seven years old," the healer answered her unspoken question.

Hermione inhaled deeply to keep her composure. He was a child – hardly older than her own – and he was never going to live until his eighth birthday. He was going to die, and it was her fault. She gripped the metal side panels of the bed with her free hand, and slid along toward the other side opposite the healer until she reached the head of the bed. She reached out and touched his golden hair – it was feather light under her fingers. He reminded her so much of her own son.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to make it harder for you, Ms. Granger," the healer said. "Whatever you decide to do – no one would blame you."

Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I can't do this. I-I can't. If it was _me_ – if it wasn't my son – I want to help, I really do – oh, God, he's going to die, isn't he?" She studied his delicate face, touching his cheek with her fingers. "He's so beautiful."

She was so enraptured that she didn't notice when the door to the room clicked open and a tall, foreboding figure stepped in.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Her thoughts interrupted, Hermione's eyes shot up toward the chillingly familiar voice. She froze, her feet rooted to the marble floor, clutching her handbag so tightly that her hands were white. Her heart jumped and began racing as adrenaline pumped through her veins at a hundred miles an hour. Her knees felt weak, and her head felt dizzy, and she could hardly keep breathing. The signature blond hair, the cold grey eyes – it was _him_.

That's when it clicked. The more she thought about it, the more she realized how obvious it should have been from the moment she saw the child. It was only natural that he had other children; after all, she did hear something about his marriage soon after the Ministry's fall. Hermione's expression softened as she pondered this revelation, thinking about her own son, but the hatred that had built up inside her for the last seven years clouded any parental sympathy she had.

As these thoughts ran through Hermione's head, Draco Malfoy stared back at her with mild irritation, as if she was a nuisance that could be easily dealt with. He had left for an important meeting with some of his advisors at Gringotts, and in that short time, look what had happened! He knew her intentions there could not have been pure – she worked for the Ministry and she was undoubtedly there to use his son against him in some way. He made a note to reprimand the healers for letting a complete stranger into his child's hospital room. It would not happen again.

As surprise melted into displeasure, he appraised the woman standing in front of him, noticing how her complexion had suddenly gone pale and the way her eyes radiated her fear.

"Granger," he acknowledged, studying her with disdain.

"Malfoy," she answered, with the same displeasure.

"Ah, I see you two are acquainted with each other," the old healer said with a smile of relief, misinterpreting the situation.

"Oh, we're old friends," Draco assured, his eyes glued to her in a bemused way.

Hermione crossed her arms in a protective gesture, and inadvertently took a step back. "I suppose that's one way of putting it."

"Well, that's perfect. Things couldn't have worked out any better than I thought," George said with a happy grin on his face. "Ms Granger's child is the transplant match we were seeking for your son."

There was an awkward moment of silence as Draco Malfoy grappled with the idea that Hermione Granger's son would be his boy's only salvation. Fear seized Hermione – and she knew she had to leave before things escalated any further, before it went down a road from which there was no return.

"I have to go," she mumbled, lowering her eyes, and then hesitated before adding, "I'm sorry about your son."

He caught her unwilling arm as she tried to dodge past him to reach the door. "He's going to die."

"Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy, you're a free man," she hissed as she wrenched her arm out of his grasp. "Now you can _watch_ your son die."

She could hardly believe the words that were coming out of her mouth, and she chastised herself for sinking to his level. Even George Lively seemed horrified at her retort.

"Mr. Lively, can you give us a moment to speak alone?" Draco said with frustrated glance at the old man.

The healer glanced uneasily at the two of them, but nodded and exited the tension-filled hospital room.

"I didn't think you, of all people, Granger, would be capable of letting an innocent child die," Draco continued once the healer was gone.

"I'll live with it," she said blankly.

"I don't believe you."

"That's your mistake."

"He's seven years old."

"I've been told."

"If he wasn't my son, if he was someone else's – "

"- I'd make the exact same decision."

"You're a poor liar."

"Insulting me isn't going to save your son."

"You'll regret this, Granger," he said. "Count on it."

"Go ahead, Malfoy, what are you going to do this time?" she said, throwing her arms open.

"You don't know what I'm capable of." His eyes flashed dangerously

"No, Malfoy," she said pointedly as she meet his eyes, "I know _exactly_ what you're capable of."

She tore her gaze away, and headed for the door, her purse clutched tightly in her hands.

"Granger!" he barked contemptuously, and she halted in her tracks. In a gentler tone, he asked, "What will it take to change your mind?"

Hermione paused for a moment, unsure of whether she should take the opportunity to leave, or answer the question with another that would surely defeat him. She composed herself before she met Draco's eyes. "Would you go to Azkaban? Would you turn yourself in to save your son?" Seeing the look of surprise in his eyes, she said, "That's what I thought."

"I'm all he has."

"I'll make sure he's in good hands."

"_You?_" he said with a derisive snort. "Trust _you_ with _my son_? You'd be the first to off him at the earliest opportunity."

Her expression changed strangely to one he couldn't recognize.

"My son needs the transplant."

"You're not exactly in a position to make demands," she spat angrily, mocking the exact words he had offered her years ago. And then, with a forced calmness, she said, "I sympathize with you, as a parent, I do. But I won't risk my son's life to save yours."

"It's very possible that he will live through the procedure."

"_'Live through the procedure'?" _she shrieked. "You say that as if it's some – _some special favor_ you're granting me. Unbelievable!"

"He's my only son," Draco argued, the urgency evident in his voice.

"Think of it this way - what would _Daddy Lucius_ say if he knew you were going to contaminate the pristine Malfoy blood-line with a _muggleborn liver_? I think he'd roll over in his grave."

"If it will save my son, I don't care if the liver is from a _fucking Muggle_ – as long as he gets one, goddammit!"

"_This conversation is over_," she said abruptly. Draco Malfoy was infuriated, she could tell, and there was no telling what he would do. The sooner she got out of there, the better it would be for both her and her son. "We're done here."

Before he could protest, she was already out the door.

Draco Malfoy caught the door behind her and watched as she disappeared down the long corridor, her heels clicking on the marble. "No, we've only just begun."

-x-x-x-

"What do you mean he's been _expelled?_"

Hermione stared open-jawed as Edward Yates, the headmaster of St. George's Primary School, broke the news of her son's dismissal from the prestigious school.

"He's not being expelled, we're merely…_letting him go_," the headmaster said uncomfortably, his expression sympathetic.

"You can't do this!" she argued, obviously upset. "What's he done?"

"Well, nothing, really. It just seems that you don't have sufficient funds to cover the cost of his tuition," the headmaster said, drawing out a piece of official-looking parchment.

Hermione blinked. "No, no, he has a scholarship. The board offered him one when he was enrolled because of his academic merits."

"The school board has revoked his scholarship," the bearded headmaster explained as he glanced at the parchment. "It's official – stamped and sealed – as of this morning."

"What? _Why?_" she demanded angrily. "He hasn't done anything to warrant this!"

"They feel he is unfit for this school, and that his progress can be better achieved elsewhere. It's all in the letter – you can read it yourself."

Hermione paced the headmaster's study as she studied the contents of the letter. "He's always done so well in his courses, he's at the top of his class, you can't dismiss him like this!"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Granger," said Yates, "but the board has made its decision. I'm powerless to overturn it."

"I'm going to take this to the Wizengamot," she threatened.

"Ms. Granger, I sympathize with you – I'm well aware that Ethan is one of our most promising students," Yates said with a sigh. "However, this is a privately funded primary school. The Wizengamot has no jurisdiction over our matters."

"This is completely unfair!"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Granger, I truly am. Believe me, if there was anything I could do to retain his admission at our school, I would."

"Then do it."

"I'm afraid this is beyond my powers as headmaster."

"This isn't over." Hermione pursed her lips. "This won't be the last you'll hear from me. We signed a legal, binding document – you can't just revoke it like that. This is ridiculous – I won't stand for it." She paused huffily. "Where's Ethan?"

"He's packing his school supplies and personal items," he answered kindly. "If you will please have a seat in the hall, he will meet you there shortly."

"I'm going to appeal this," Hermione said, backing away toward the entrance of the headmaster's office. "You'll be hearing from me very soon," she threatened as she grasped the knob to the headmaster's study.

"Yes, please do."

She stepped out of his office, into the empty corridor, her mind swimming and full of rage. She would ask Langdon for his help – yes, that's what she would do, she decided. He was skilled in these matters of law, much more so than she, and he could offer valuable advice. As she stared off, contemplating what steps she would take to appeal to the board, she did not notice as footsteps approached behind her. Suddenly, strong hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her into a side closet before she could resist.

He slammed her against the wall of the empty closet, his hands pinning her wrists against the fresh white paint. She was hit with a terrified sense of déjà-vu, and as soon as she saw the flash of white-blond hair, she was paralyzed with such fear that rendered her helpless against him.

"This will go a lot more smoothly if you cooperate," said Draco Malfoy, edging his face toward hers, and as he did so, she turned hers to the side, in an effort to keep from his touch. "Now are you going to keep fighting me, or can I let you go?"

When he felt her tense body begin to loosen, he released her wrists.

"You did this, didn't you?"

"You gave me no choice."

"You're a _monster_," she spat, repulsed by him.

"Aw, fuck, Granger," he shouted, visibly agitated. "Someone ought to throw you off your high horse - don't tell me you wouldn't do the same for your son. I may be a monster – but at the end of the day I've got protect what's mine in whatever way I can. But you? You're so fucking self –righteous how could you possibly see beyond your fucking thick skull. "

"I'm not changing my mind."

"_What is it that you want?_" He demanded with renewed urgency. "Do you want _money?_ _How much?_ I'll have it transferred to your Gringotts vault within the hour."

"I don't want your money," she hissed.

"Then what?" he pleaded. "An apology? All right, _I'm sorry_, will that do?"

"You're sorry? _Sorry?_" She shook her head in disbelief. "That's it then? You've summed up the last seven years of my life with '_sorry_'? As if – as if that'll absolve you of everything you've done! You disgust me."

"I offered you compensation – the money - "

_Whap_.

Her hand came down hard upon his face.

"_Money?_" she said incredulously. "_Money?_ I'm not a whore, Draco Malfoy – and least of all yours. And my son not some kind of – of expendable organ machine - you can cut up at your disposal, and no amount of galleons in the world can change that. There is going to come a time when you grow up and realize that gold isn't going to solve all your fucking problems. Start getting used to it."

"_Then what do you want?_ You want me to _suffer_? All right, I get it," he said. "I did something awful to you, Granger, I know it better than anyone else in the world, and I'm not proud of it, and I'm not here to ask for your forgiveness. So hate _me_. Hurt _me_. Punish _me_. But don't punish my son for my sins. This vendetta is between _us_, Granger – leave my son out of it."

"I've already made my mind," she said coldly, although her voice was wavering.

"Scorpius is a good boy. He likes to read, he's so smart," – there was a hint of pride in his voice - "and he has the most beautiful smile. He's not going to grow up like me. _He doesn't deserve to die_."

"I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered, her defenses weakening as she thought about her own son and what she would do if he was in the same situation.

"He's in pain," Draco said, and she could hear the heavy agony in his voice. "So much pain that the healers have to keep him sedated, and even so all he can do is cry in delirium. He's lost his mother. I'm all he has left. I can't let him down."

He met her eyes with renewed vigor, and pinned her shoulders roughly against the wall again. "I'm going to do whatever it takes to protect him – _whatever it takes_. He's my only son," Draco argued, the urgency evident in his voice.

She turned away, shaking her head. "I lost Ron, I'm _not_ going to lose my son too."

"Then you better keep a good eye on him, Granger," he threatened, "because there's no telling who'll come and snatch him away when you least expect it."

She glared back at him incredulously. "You're sick," she breathed. "One day, you are going to die slowly and painfully, and that's exactly what you deserve," she retorted viciously.

"Won't you even consider for a moment - "

"Haven't you done enough damage?" Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, wincing in pain, as tears leaked from her eyes. "When can you just leave me alone?"

"You think I would be here, setting my pride aside, begging _you_ – _of all people, Granger_, if I had any other choice?"

In the heat of their conversation, they hardly noticed the ruckus they were making or when the door to the closet swung open unceremoniously, and a small school boy stared back at them with eyes opened wide in horror.

"_Mummy?_"

Draco Malfoy's attention snapped toward the intruder, and as his eyes surveyed the scene before him, traveling from the young boy's shock of white-blond hair to his remarkably familiar grey eyes, his fiery expression metamorphosized into one of bewilderment. His eyes darted incredulously to the woman the child had named as his mother, and then quickly back to the boy again. As he did so, the confusion in his face was replaced by an expression of sudden understanding, tinged with horror and utter disbelief. The severity of the unforeseen revelation rattled and unnerved him, and he was unable to contain his apparent shock as all color drained from his face.

-x-x-x-

A/N: Leave a review! Thanks!


	4. Chapter 3: Blood

A/N: Hope everyone had a fantastic Thanksgiving! Thanks so much for all the reviews – I love you guys! A few of you brought up some questions. Some are answered in this chapter, and as for the others, I'll address them in an A/N at the end because I don't want to clutter up the beginning of this chapter.

-x-

- Chapter Three -

_Blood_

-x-

They say that in the face of a threat, the body reacts with two primitive responses – fight or flight. In Hermione's case, she had neither the will to fight nor the strength for flight. Her breath caught in her throat, and she stood frozen, paralyzed with fear, her heart racing, and a thousand thoughts reeling through her head. She shut her eyes tight, bracing herself for the worst, hoping against hope that it wasn't real. When she opened her eyes again, the severity of the situation bore back at her inexorably. Her knees buckled under her, and she was faintly aware that the only thing keeping her upright was Draco Malfoy's arms, pinning her against the wall.

She watched helplessly as his eyes wandered over the boy's features, scrutinizing every minute detail - the white-blond hair, the intense grey eyes, the elegant nose, the delicate face that Draco knew would become handsomely chiseled through the years. His grip suddenly slackened, marking the momentousness of his revelation, and she found herself slipping down the wall before she finally regained use of her legs and caught herself.

He tore his gaze away from the boy, and turned to Hermione, searching her eyes – the fear in her eyes confirmed his own conclusions. Aside from the apparent shock, she couldn't read the expression on his face, and perhaps that was what frightened her the most. She remained silent, her eyes wide with emotion, and her lips slightly parted, as if she wanted to say something, but couldn't. The way he studied her son and the reaction on his face, the dangerous angle of his jaw, and the way his facial muscles tensed, told her everything she feared. He _knew_.

Panicking, she did the only sensible thing she could – she pried Draco's arms off of her, and scrambled towards the boy, enveloping him in a protective embrace, in an attempt to shield him from those piercing grey eyes.

"Ethan," she breathed as she knelt down to the level of his head, running her hands over his fine, blond hair, and his thin face, as if checking him for injuries.

With him safe in her arms, she could almost imagine that everything was all right, that it was just the two of them there. For a moment, she could breathe again, gazing into her son's startled expression as if to telling him not to worry – that nothing was wrong. And then from behind her –

"Is he mine?"

It was less a question than a statement.

She recoiled at arrogant nuances of his words, how they rung in her ears, reminding her of every reason why she should hate this child. It wasn't that she didn't love him – no, quite contrarily, she loved him more than anything in the world. As long as no one voiced it – put it into words – she could continue to go about her life, ignoring the fact that her son was part of _his_ flesh, part of _his_ blood. Inside the boy's veins coursed the treacherous blood, a forbidden mingling of his and hers, intertwined eternally. He was something that irrevocably united the two of them together as one – _forever_. The mere thought made her queasy and she had to close her eyes a moment to steady herself.

And then with adrenaline pumping through her body, Hermione rose to her full height, tucking her son behind her, and turned to face Draco with iron resolve.

"Stay away from my son –," she spluttered, "- and stay away from me."

The boy peeked curiously from behind his mother at the tall, imposing man who had caused her so much distress. His big, grey eyes wandered peculiarly over the strange man as he wrapped his arms defensively around his mother's leg.

"Come, Ethan, let's go home," she said hurriedly, as she swept the bewildered child along, away from the stunned blond man.

"Who was that, Mummy?" he asked as he trotted along, trying to keep up with Hermione's swift pace.

"Nobody," she answered, her voice echoing down the long hallway where he stood, deep in thought, his hands in his pockets as he watched their retreating forms. "He's nobody."

-x-x-x-

"I'm an awful person, aren't I, Ginny?" A miserable groan escaped from Hermione's lips, and she placed her forehead in her hands, with her elbows propped on the flower-print tablecloth. She closed her eyes and massaged her aching temples with her fingers.

"Stop saying that, or else you'll start believing it," Ginny insisted.

"I'm a murderer – _a child killer_."

"Rubbish!" Ginny exclaimed. "You did what you had to do to protect Ethan – I wouldn't have done any differently if I was in your situation!"

"I feel like miserable, Ginny, I can't help it," Hermione said, her face sullen. "I can't help thinking that maybe the two of them both would have turned out all right – Ginny, how am I supposed to live with this for the rest of my life? I can't wash my hands of this."

Ginny Weasley shook her head kindly. "Don't let it get to you – the only thing you're guilty is being a good mother – you did what any mum would have done. You'd have to be a horrible to agree to something like that – and if you had agreed – I would have scolded you till you came to your right senses," she fumed. "Harry would have never allowed you to go through with it – thank God he doesn't know or who knows what he would have stirred up – he can be so rash sometimes." She sighed wearily. "He's never home long enough to know anything that's going on, now anyhow. It's just work, work, work."

"Is everything all right with Harry? The only time I ever see him anymore is when I happen to run into him at the Ministry, and even so, it's just hi and goodbye," Hermione commented. "It must be awful for you."

"It's like I'm a single mother," Ginny lamented bitterly. "I feel like I'm running in circles all the time. I don't know how you do it, Hermione – with your job at the Ministry and taking care of Ethan at the same time."

"It's a lot easier when you don't have a choice. Besides, I've got you and Harry, haven't I? I think Ethan's seen more of you than me lately," she sighed in contemplation, "and you have no idea how inadequate I feel all the time." She fumbled with the fabric of her button-up blouse as a 

distraction. "I try to raise him as best I can, teach him right from wrong, but I can't help thinking that there's something in his blood – something horrible that's going to manifest itself sooner or later."

"There's no such thing as bad blood, Hermione," Ginny reassured. "Blood doesn't define who we are – you of all people should know this."

Hermione propped her chin on her arms. "I guess I'm just terrified that one day I'm going to look in his eyes and see something…_ugly_ inside."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Ginny scolded. "I don't ever want to hear you talk about bad blood again! Do you understand?" she said with finality.

Hermione nodded, although her expression was still crestfallen, but their conversation was interrupted by a sudden loud pop, which declared Harry Potter's arrival.

"Speak of the devil…"

"Long day?" Hermione asked, watching as he set his briefcase down on the table.

"The usual," he responded, pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. "The endless parade of paperwork and interviews and consults and strategizing and – well, you know, I'm just so popular."

"Ah, the price of being Harry Potter."

Ginny made for the kitchen counter. "Supper's cold – it's been sitting out for hours – I'm heating it up for you, Harry."

He gave a casual nod of his head. "Thanks, Ginny. How are the children?"

"Sleeping soundly," Ginny said. "I put them in bed hours ago."

"Don't count on it," Hermione remarked. "The boys are probably still up playing chess under the covers with a flashlight. Ethan's so naughty sometimes, I hardly know what to do."

"Oh, they're still young," Ginny reassured with a smile. "Let them play around a little. It won't hurt." Turning to Harry, she said, "Is everything all right at the Ministry?"

"Hmm…" Harry muttered, visibly distracted, taking a seat at the table opposite Hermione. "It's a mess, as usual."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ginny scooped a good dollop of the casserole onto a plate and passed it to him, running her hand over his shoulders as she seated herself next to him.

"That means exactly what it's supposed to mean," Hermione said, leaning into the table and shaking her head. "Corruption, as usual," she said with a sigh. "The crime rate's escalated in the last few years, and Law Enforcement's been scrambling to fix everything up. The only good thing about the war is that it forced us to unite – but now that it's over, everyone's turned to their own selfish means again, which means loads of domestic crime." She turned to Harry with a half-hearted smile. "At least the Dark Arts have quieted down."

"A little too quiet," Harry commented, before he devoured the casserole on his plate hungrily, like a starving lion, "which is never a good thing…" Harry paused for another bite. "It makes me nervous…like it's the quiet before a storm."

"Or," Ginny began optimistically, "it could just be that they've died down _for good_."

"Let's hope so," Harry said, although he was still uneasy. Then turning to Hermione, he said, "Fantastic job on the O'Donnell trial, today – I read about it in the paper – your arguments were just _brilliant_."

"I am quite good, aren't I?" Hermione said unabashedly. "I'm just glad it's blown over, though – now I can have tonight to relax before picking up the other dozen cases lined up for trial."

"Don't talk to Harry about relaxing – he doesn't remember what that means," Ginny said, agitated.

Harry sighed again. "I have to go back to the Ministry to finish some plans –"

"See, _I knew it –_" Ginny began with frustration.

"Ginny, I can't let the Ministry fall apart," he argued wearily. He turned toward Hermione. "Are you staying over tonight, Hermione? Perhaps you can keep Ginny company."

"I'm helping Ginny knit some clothing for the charity auction tomorrow."

"You? _Knit?_" Harry said with a skeptical laugh.

She dismissed his skepticism. "Remember when I knit all those things for the house-elves when we were in Hogwarts?"

Harry snorted, trying to contain his laughter. "Yeah, I remember what they looked like." He turned to his wife, giving her a quizzical look, aimed at inciting his best friend, and squeezed her shoulders gently. "Good luck with this one, Ginny – "

"All right, Harry, you go ahead and laugh – " Hermione retorted, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks. "I've improved loads – ask Ginny – I even knit Ethan a sweater last month - "

"Oh, that was a _sweater?_" Harry jested. "That blue, dingy old thing? I was trying to figure out what it resembled - "

"Harry Potter!" Ginny rebuked, wearing an expression that was faintly reminiscent of her late mother.

"All right, I'm off," he said quickly, pecking his wife on the cheek. "Happy knitting!" He flashed a clownish grin at Hermione, who had a scowl on her face, grabbed the handle on his suitcase, and disappeared with a pop before she could protest.

-x-x-x-

There was a faintly audible pop, and a figure appeared in a well-concealed corner shrouded in the darkness of the night amidst a throng of loud passersby in a crowded street. He ducked out of the way and slipped toward a hidden side door, moving stealthily through the night-time strollers, his dark hair blending into the night. He reached the entrance, turned the knob, and was greeted by the familiar bustle and roar of a popular pub.

The venue was crowded and it took him several sweeping glances to spot who he was looking for. He was sitting on a barstool, far in the corner, arms set on the bar, his head hung over his elbows. Two empty bottles of whiskey, and half a bottle of vodka lined the counter beside his head, speaking clearly of that night's activities. His hair was unkempt, so unusual of a man of his breeding, and he had the rugged look of a man who had not shaven in several days.

His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and his shirt was only halfway buttoned, his bloodshot eyes indicating that he had barely slept in the past few days. He took another long swig of the vodka as the dark-haired man seated himself in the stool next to him.

"I thought I'd find you here," said Blaise Zabini anxiously.

Draco Malfoy threw an apathetic glance over to his neighbor, and gestured to him with the bottle in his hand, swinging wildly. "What do you want?"

"To make sure you don't kill yourself after I've just bailed your bloody arse from life in Azkaban," Blaise said, indicating for the bartender to pour him a drink. "The least you could do is to acknowledge my efforts by not drinking yourself to death and wasting my time. How much have you had tonight – today – _blimey_, Draco, how many days have you been here? – You look terrible."

"Leave me alone," he slurred, downing the last of the vodka. The empty bottle came down hard onto the counter.

"This isn't the way to do it," Blaise argued.

"I buried my son yesterday," – he threw another handful of galleons onto the bar counter and indicated for the bartender – "Come back and lecture me when you've done the same."

"The Scotch – " he said when the bartender scooped up the gold. "Just give me the damn bottle –" he snapped, irritated, when the barman tried to pour him a shot.

Blaise stuck an arm out to stop the transaction. "No, he's done here," he said firmly to the bartender, who produced a flask of the amber liquid.

"Stay out of my fucking problems." He wrangled the Scotch from Blaise.

Blaise watched his friend pour a full glass and then proceeded to drain it in a few masterful gulps. "There's no going back, is there?"

Draco paused, studying the glass in his hand. "I haven't got anyone left anywhere – " he hung his head wearily "- I left it all for Scorpius – _everything_, Blaise – and now I don't have even him – it was all for nothing – bloody brilliant I was, leaving it all behind." He poured another glass and continued. "Gregory's dead, Vincent's dead – nearly all of my father's generation – all of our generation - it's a rank of newcomers – faces I hardly recognize, young fanatics I barely know – so there I am, leading a legion of strangers, for a cause that begun so long ago – before my birth - I can hardly even remember what it was about or what it was for."

"Sounds miserable," Blaise commented, taking a sip of his Guinness.

"But I was somebody there, Blaise, somebody important," Draco insisted. "Here, I'm – I'm a nobody - just a pathetic, wretched man living behind the Malfoy name and inheritance. Everything's gone, Blaise, everything except the money – and now even that's meaningless."

"Loosen up, mate, it'll sort itself out in due time," Blaise assured.

"I can't live up to my father's name – I'm a failure in his eyes – I've let him down – there's no worse feeling than that," he said bitterly in his drunkenness. "I've let our legacy go to shambles…it all ends because of me…Scorpius is dead because of me…the Malfoy line dies with me."

"To hell with your father! Don't you see what he's done to you?" Blaise said, making a crude gesture. "And there are other women – you can remarry – and then there will be more children, Draco. You can make up for your mistakes with Scorpius."

"I'm not a good father, Blaise, you and I both know that. It's not something that's going to change. And you're right – there are other women – plenty – but the only one I want mothering my children is Astoria, and she's dead."

"I've nearly forgotten how stubborn you are."

Draco Malfoy played with the wedding band on his finger, nodding with determination as he made a spur-of-the-moment decision to voice something that he had plagued him for quite some time.

"I want you to draw up my will," he requested solemnly. "I don't want the Malfoy estates and gold going to the Rosiers or Blacks – I don't want those blubbering fools fighting to get their dirty hands on Malfoy money."

Blaise raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're one of those greedy fools who want to be buried with their gold."

Draco took a gulp of his whisky nervously, trying to prepare himself to make his next request. "There's a boy at St. George's Primary School – his name is Ethan," he paused, noting how strange it was, having that name come off his tongue for the first time, "– you won't have trouble finding him…there was a misunderstanding of sorts – and the school board dismissed him –"

"I see you're following in your father's footsteps. How much was the bribe?" Blaise said with a disheartened sigh. "I hardly thought you were one to wage battles with children."

"It was a personal vendetta of sorts…" Draco muttered, taking a large gulp. "But that's not important. I want you to reinstate him at the school…make sure his tuition is paid for…set aside finances for his future education as well…perhaps prepare a fund for him to be inherited when he comes of age…" he listed as Blaise listened attentively, "- whatever you see fit. And when I die, provided I am neither married nor have any children, I want – I want everything to pass to him."

"What's this – a sudden act of charity?" he snorted sarcastically, before he had a chance to consider Draco's request.

Setting his drink on the table, Draco turned toward his friend with an oddly somber expression. "I screwed up, Blaise, I screwed up."

Blaise squinted his eyes in an effort to decipher the austerity in Draco's expression; his jaw dropped as the full meaning of Draco's last words suddenly became clear to him. "Merlin, Draco, you of all people! Didn't your father teach you a thing or two about leaving bastards in the world?" he said, visibly aghast. "I always knew you were rash – careless at times – but not _stupid_. How in Merlin's name - ? Did you never give a thought to your blood-line?"

"I said I screwed up," he snapped, stronger this time, as if that made it somehow less worse. Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, he continued. "Obviously, if I marry and produce legitimate heirs, the Malfoy estates and assets must pass to them," he reasoned carefully, "but in that situation, I want you to set aside a comfortable amount of gold for him – I want you to make sure he's well taken care of…" He swirled his glass of Scotch, adding somewhat hesitantly with a sigh, "He's my _son_ – Malfoy blood – I'll be damned if I'm going to let him live a beggar's life." He turned to Blaise in all sincerity. "I trust you will carry this out with the utmost discretion?"

"Right…of course." Blaise let it all sink in, before he made his next inquiry. "Were you in love with her? – The mother, I mean… am I acquainted with her?"

Draco wrung his head and muttered a string of profanities.

"Not too friendly with each other, then?"

"Do you happen to remember –," Draco winced and braced himself, "– Hermione Granger?"

Blaise was rendered speechless for a moment. And then – "_Hermione Granger?_" he spat incredulously, trying to wrap his head around the revelation. "_The_ Hermione Granger? – Know-it-all, stick-up-her-arse prude who works in Law Enforcement? You – _you_ – and _Hermione Granger?_"

"It's not what you think," he cut in hastily.

" – the same Hermione Granger who was working with Connor Langdon to send you to Azkaban?" Blaise exclaimed. "Not a very affectionate relationship, was it?" he offered sarcastically. "What were you _thinking?_ She's muggleborn, you do realize?"

"No, I didn't know," Draco snapped sardonically.

"And you let it progress that far? Till the damn bastard was born? Did Astoria know about this?"

"Of course she didn't know!" he said, horrified at the very thought. "Even I wasn't aware of it until very recently," he said through clenched teeth. "_If_ I'd known, I would have had it taken care of, _obviously_."

"I take it you've seen him, then?" Blaise conjectured. "What's he look like?"

Draco sighed defeatedly, swirling his glass of scotch. "A Malfoy."

At his words, Blaise groaned and downed the last of his beer. "_I_ have to get you out of every hole you dig yourself into! Is she demanding money? Has she made any threats? How much will it take to keep her mouth shut?"

"She doesn't want anything," Draco said, although not any less ill-at-ease. "But God, if my father was alive –"

"If Lucius was alive, he would have taken care of the situation long ago – he would never have allowed a half-blood Malfoy to come into this world," Blaise reasoned. "But as such is the situation –," he continued cautiously, "– have you thought of restoring his birthright?"

A look of utter horror crossed Draco's features. "I can't name a _half-blood_ as my heir – I won't do it – I wouldn't do that to our family name," he argued heatedly, disgusted at the thought. "I want the money to pass to him as an act of charity or something of the sort – you can figure out how to do it without having it look too conspicuous."

"The times are changing, Draco," Blaise said with a sigh. "If these years have taught me anything, it's that blood doesn't mean the same thing it did centuries ago – you're going to realize that, Draco – maybe not today or tomorrow – but you will. Half-blood heir or not, it's better than cutting off the Malfoy line entirely, even your father would see reason in that. You might find that your sentiments change."

When Draco didn't offer a reply, he pressed on. "What do you plan to do…to deal with this, uh…situation?"

He shrugged feebly. "Nothing."

"_Nothing?_"

"I owe her that much."

"And here I thought you didn't have a conscience," Blaise said mockingly. "Exactly _what_ do you owe her?" he pressed curiously.

Draco scoffed. "You wouldn't understand."

"I'm a lawyer, for crying out loud, Draco, I deal with these problems all the time!"

"What do you want to know, Blaise?" he raised his voice vehemently. "You want to know how we tortured her – starved her, beat her, whipped her?" – he looked for Blaise's reaction – "How I threw her up against a wall and fucked her till she bled raw, and then fucked her – _again and again_ – till she cried out every single one of the Order's secrets and betrayed her cause?" He saw a horrified expression of disgust cross his friend's face at his callousness, and lowered his voice, continuing solemnly. "I don't have any delusions about my virtues or morality, Blaise, _I know what I am_. I did what I had to do, and maybe that doesn't make it right or even any less worse, but it was necessary – for the greater good – it was my duty."

Blaise shook his head, appalled, as his initial horror turned into pity. "You know what I think, Draco? I think you have to tell yourself that to justify all the heinous things you've done in your life, hide behind your honorable façade of duty and loyalty –," he spat these words out as if they were something dirty, "– to your family, to your blood, to tradition - because if you actually faced everything you did, really thought about it hard, you'd go mad."

"_Don't judge me –_," Draco retorted vehemently, his temper rising, "– you have no right – you've never fought for anything you believed in, you cowering sycophant, joining the most advantageous side, and abandoning everything you've ever believed in."

"No," Blaise objected, "I turned from that because I didn't want to become _you_. Look at what you've become, Draco, take a good look at yourself. I may have helped you weasel out of an Azkaban sentence, but that doesn't mean I don't think you're a monster."

There was a heavy silence between the two as Draco mulled this over.

"That makes two of you." A bitter laugh escaped his lips, although he didn't seem any more remorseful.

"Draco," Blaise began, shaking his head heavy-heartedly, "sometimes I wonder if you have a conscience – _do you have any morals – any scruples?"_

"_I am what I am_," he snapped contemptuously. "If you don't think that's good enough, why didn't you let them send me to Azkaban?"

"Because you're my friend, Draco," Blaise reasoned, reaching inside of himself, against his better judgment, "and you would have done the same for me." He placed a conciliatory hand on Draco's shoulder. "It's late, and you've had enough to drink for the day – I'll call you a cab – you're not fit to Apparate – and we'll sort everything out at my office tomorrow, all right?"

Draco wobbled off of the bar stool somewhat unsteadily, and the two men shuffled between the cheery crowds in the bar, heading toward the entrance.

The fresh air outside heightened his senses. As Blaise waved to hail a cab, he heard a loud commotion between the throngs of Muggles who were parading on the pavement. They babbled excitedly, pointing towards the velvety night sky. Draco glanced up, following suit.

A series of shooting stars danced across the sky like fireworks. At first, Draco was unperturbed, gazing at the backdrop with a sense of expectation and sudden relief. As everyone around him erupted in gasps of excitement and delight, Draco re-evaluated his current situation and stared, horrified, at the beautiful streaks of gold that flashed in the heavens. The effects of his drinking seemed to wear off immediately as he was thrust into such a sense of clarity.

"Go home, Blaise," he commanded authoritatively, as he tore his gaze from the sky and turned to his friend. "Get your family out of here – _go, now_ – France, Spain, the Americas – just far away from here."

Blaise was caught off guard by the sudden change in Draco's demeanor. "What's going on, Draco?"

The terror frozen in those grey eyes unsettled him.

"_It's begun_."

-x-x-x-

_According to records we discovered buried within other misleading paperwork, Ms. Badger and her cohorts siphoned large sums of money from the Ministry's treasury, using this to fund their various excursions in the Bahamas, Greece, and France, and it is clear that - _

Hermione sat curled on her armchair, knees brought up against her chest, pen in hand, immersed in her own thoughts as she drafted the latest version of the Ministry's case against Nina Badger, a financial consultant who had been involvement with embezzlement that drained thousands of galleons worth of gold from the Ministry's funds. As she pondered over what to address next in the case, she felt an inevitable yawn beg for release, and she stretched her arms above her head, exercising her neglected muscles. As the yawn manifested itself, she covered her mouth with a delicate hand, sore from the last few hours of non-stop writing.

She glanced toward the clock on the wall, and saw that it was past nearly ten o'clock. She was assaulted by a feeling of impending doom as she counted the hours left until seven-thirty, which was when the draft was due at the Ministry – and she was far from done. The long day's worth of court appearances and client meetings had left her fatigued, and at home it was no easier; she had Ethan to take care of, and she was engulfed in a wave of guilt, remembering the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she had handed him as that night's supper, too worn-out to prepare a real meal. Glancing at the parchment in her hand, she dreaded the thought of another sleepless night. She had put Ethan to bed at nine, and she had a faint urge to take a break from her writing and check up on him.

Setting the papers on the lamp-set beside her, she rose gingerly from her seat, and stretched again as soon as she was on her feet. She felt instantly refreshed, and padded over to a door on the left, carefully skipping over the neat piles of case files she had organized on the plush carpet. She opened the door quietly to keep from waking him, and peered in to the dark room as the living room light shone onto his sleeping form on the bed.

He looked angelic, curled on his side with his cheek pressed against the pillow and the light shining on his crown of fair hair. She studied the steady rise and fall of his chest with a smile, leaning on the doorframe with one hand in the pocket of her soft flannel pajama pants.

A loud rap on the door jolted her to her senses.

Just like that, she was thrust back into the world of work and law and the Ministry. It wouldn't be the first time she was visited at such a late hour by one of her colleagues, asking for advice or preparing for trials. It was a tough living, but a job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had always been her dream.

Hermione shut the door to Ethan's room quickly, not wanting him to wake up as the rapping on the door continued and increased in urgency. She hurried to the front door of her flat – she knew she'd better answer it before it awoke all the neighbors – faintly wondering what on earth warranted this late visit.

She turned the bolt on the lock and grasped the knob, swinging it open, getting an unpleasant blast of cold air from the hallway. But as she came eye to eye with her visitor, it wasn't the breeze of cold air that sent chills down her spine.

Terrified, she reacted quickly, attempting to slam the door shut, but he was prepared and propped a foot inside, against the wooden door. His strength overwhelmed hers and he stepped inside the flat quickly, before she could protest, and shut the door hastily behind him.

Hermione was petrified – there was no other word for what she felt at that moment, so trapped in her own home, in what was supposed to be _her_ domain. She opened her mouth to scream, make any sound at all, but nothing would come out.

"What do you want?" she breathed finally, shrinking away from his tall frame. She folded her arms over her chest, suddenly feeling very exposed in the small cotton camisole she was wearing.

He wore a haggard expression, and as her eyes swept over him, it looked as if he hadn't slept in several days. A few buttons at the top of his shirt had been forgotten, and he wore it untucked, so different from the brushed-up upper-class image he typically evoked. His hair was unkempt, his face ruggedly unshaven, and his characteristically piercing eyes were unusually dull.

"Relax, Granger," he said, his eyes sweeping the small London flat, "you don't have to be afraid of me."

It was probably the singularly the most ridiculous request she had ever heard, and if it wasn't for the fact she was so frightened she could barely think, she would have laughed at the sheer absurdity of it. Afraid of him? – that was the understatement of the century! – As if there was any way she could be anything but terrified him!

She backed away from him, towards the small kitchen, her limbs shaking visibly. As he closed in on her, she caught a strong whiff of something distinct and pungent –

"_Have you been drinking?_" she shrieked, stunned that the situation could be any worse. If there was anything more frightening than Draco Malfoy, it was Draco Malfoy _drunk_ – she had no idea what he would be capable of while he was intoxicated, without the ability for rational thought. She was horrified at the idea. "_You're drunk!_"

"Listen to me, Granger, and listen closely." His voice was hoarse and weary, but not all together irrational. In fact, he looked more exhausted than anything else.

"Get out."

"I'm not here to pick fights with you."

"_Get out_," she repeated, louder this time.

Her hand snaked into the kitchen sink behind her as she held on to his gaze, fishing for the anything that could be used to defend herself. As her hand closed around the handle of a large knife, she thanked the heavens that she had been too busy to do the dishes for the last few days, leaving a pile of dirty utensils and cooking equipment in the sink.

As he closed in on her, in one swift movement, the knife was against his neck, pressed into his flesh by her shaking hands.

"No – _no_, don't come any closer."

"You don't have it in you to be a killer, Granger, you and I both know that." His tone was more annoyed than fearful.

"I told you to leave us alone." The blade threatened to break skin.

"Go on, then, _do it_." He took another step closer forcing the sharp blade into his flesh, drawing blood. "Take your revenge, Granger. Do it. It's what you want, isn't it?"

At his words, she steeled herself and pressed the knife deeper into his skin, watching as deep red blood dribbled down the side of the blade. She saw a flicker of a grimace cross his face, and suddenly she faltered for whatever reason she couldn't name.

"What do you want?" she breathed, her hand trembling, unable to carry out the act.

"It's started," he said, and there was a note of urgency in his voice. "They're coming - they're coming for you."

She blinked. "_W-what?_"

He reached up and grasped the knife, folding his hand over hers, noticing how it trembled underneath his. She recoiled slightly from his touch, but did not resist as he guided the knife away.

"Come with me if you want to live."

-x-x-x-

Author's Note:

Okay, end of another chapter! Phew! It's so hard to write! Parts of this chapter were written and rewritten over and over again! I wish I was a director instead and this was a movie – 

that would be so much easier. The next chapter might be a while because finals are coming up and I'm sooooooooooo far behind in all my classes!! Yikes! But going on to other matters…

I want Ethan to look kind of like the boy from The Mummy Returns, who I think is just so absolutely adorable! I realize that his hair isn't white-blond…but oh well, his mannerism are just so cute in the movie! Okay, there's this one Victoria's Secret model who I think looks like a grown-up version of Emma Watson, like omg they look so much alike it's weird! Blair from Gossip Girls could be Hermione, except she doesn't look old enough for this story, or Sophia Bush or Emmy Rossum or Rachel McAdams (as a brunette). For years I've been trying to find someone who looked like an adult version of Draco, and there just aren't any hot actors who do! It's the white-blond hair that's the problem. I want him to kind of resemble Michael Vartan or Chase from House or David Beckham, from back when he had good hair, lol. Or maybe like Ryan Gosling back when he was younger and had hair and was clean shaven and stuff. If only Zac Efron had lighter hair and was older, I think he might be good – he has such gorgeous eyes! And a little bit of Jude Law's douche-bag attitude too.

So one comment I got was that Draco must have looked really weird losing all the color in his face when he's already so pale – and I thought the exact thing when I was writing it, lol!

The name Scorpius comes from the DH epilogue – that's what Draco named his son, and I figured I would just use that even thought this story is not epilogue-compliant.

Okay, that's all for today. Reviews will be greatly appreciated!


	5. Chapter 4: Persuasion

A/N: I want to give a big thanks to all my reviewers! Sorry for the long wait – finals were killer! This is a pretty rough draft of this chapter…and it's gonna get revised, but I just wanted to post it already because it's been so long since I've posted a chapter. I'm going to go through during winter break and revise/edit the other chapters as well because I read through them and decided they were really bad, lol. With that said, please enjoy!

-x-

- Chapter Four -

_Persuasion_

-x-

Hermione gaped open-jawed at him, out of shock or bewilderment or plain horror it was unclear, but as she did so, her grip on the knife inadvertently loosened. Draco used this opportunity to slip the knife deftly out of her hand before she could react. She responded with a startled intake of breath when she realized what he had done, and her eyes darted quickly to the knife that was in his hand now, and then back toward him again. He held her brown eyes, the fear in them unmistakable, with his own, and said, enunciating carefully, "I'm not here to hurt you –" and slowly lowered the knife onto the sink counter behind her in an act of reconciliation.

His actions left her dumbfounded for a few seconds, but she quickly blinked out of her momentary daze, and her expression of surprise morphed into one of utter loathing. "What is this – some sort of sick game of yours?" she spewed contemptuously, disgust etched in her face.

He brushed her reaction aside. "I want you to leave this country," he pressed assertively, without regard to anything she had said. There was a steely look of determination in his grey eyes, the expression of a man who had never been denied a request in his life.

"_Leave this country?_" she nearly shrieked, scoffing with molten anger and disbelief. She could hardly believe he was here – in her home – let alone demanding such things of her. "_You're drunk_ – you're completely deranged." Her eyes swept his haggard appearance and continued, "Who do you think you are – coming here like this and making these – these completely ridiculous demands -," she threw her arms in the air, "What are you doing in my flat? _Get out!_"

His mouth twitched, and it was clear he was vexed. He had nearly forgotten how annoying her mere presence was back in the days of Hogwarts. "Look, Granger, I can't tell you what's going on – but you have to leave here – _tonight_. Take – " and here he paused as if he wasn't sure how to craft his words to her liking, "- take _the boy_ – and leave. Go to France – I have contacts there – you can stay there until everything blows over –"

"Are you out of your mind?" she exclaimed, waving away everything he had just said. "Good god – not all of us can be privy to vacations whenever the sudden urge arises –" she said heatedly, wringing her hands. "I can't believe we're even having this conversation," she mumbled, directed more to herself than to him, "this is completely absurd…" She raised her eyes to meet his. "Get out. Just go. I've put up with this for long enough. This is over. I never want to see you again."

"Don't be such a poor sport -"

"Have I not made myself clear?" she cut in resentfully. "You're trespassing in my home...you vile – " she wrinkled her face and bit back all the expletives she would have liked to use in all manner of civility, and continued with a noticeable quiver, "I never want to see you again."

As if to respect her wishes, he backed away from her, giving her some much needed personal space, and turned away in contemplation. When he gathered his thoughts, he spun around to face her again, beginning calmly, "I'm doing you a favor, Granger," realizing that she was sufficiently calmer, he continued, "and maybe you'll realize that if you took a moment just to consider everything I've just said." She made a move to protest, but he silenced her with a look. "Just take a moment to consider it…_please._" The last part was spoken with great difficulty.

She looked away from him and took several deep breaths. "Just leave," she enunciated as carefully as possible, fighting to maintain some emblem of civility, turning her head away to avoid his gaze. A strand of chestnut curls fell from the messy bun at the back of her head. "I-I can't even look at you any longer…_I hate you_." Her words were impassioned, and she bit her lips, as if it was an expression she was loathe to use on anyone. "Just go before I do something that's going to get me tossed in Azkaban." Her knuckles were white as she clenched her fists, trembling with fury. "I hate you, Malfoy, I hate you."

"Well now, hate's a bit strong of a word -" he began, reverting back to that familiar drawl that had so characterized him in his Hogwarts days.

"Not nearly strong enough," she fired back, blinking fiercely, and then returned to the habit of avoiding his eyes, looking around the room – everywhere except at him. "What do you want?" she demanded. "You're the last person I ever wanted to see. What did you think you could just walk in here and we'd chat each other up like old friends? Trust me, you don't want to hear anything I have to say about you."

"Flatter me," he offered arrogantly, in all sincerity, "then maybe afterwards you won't be so much of a stubborn, blithering idiot, and some of what I'm saying will go through that thick skull of yours." He set his hands on the kitchen counter on either side of her, effectively trapping her. "Have a go."

Hermione leaned back, trying to escape his touch and shut her eyes, breathing deeply to contain a wretched hiccup of a sob. When she opened them again, they were over-bright and her lips were trembling. "There's so much I want to say to you, Malfoy," she said, her voice shaking, nearly choking over the words, blinking fervently to keep her tears at bay. She balled her hand into a fist and brought it to her lips, trying to contain an inevitable sob. "I just can't get it out."

Despite how hard she tried to blink back her tears, a solitary bead formed at the corner of her eye and slid down her cheek.

"Don't – _don't cry_," he said, exasperated and annoyed, but oddly sympathetic. He cupped her face in his hand, and wiped the tear with his thumb, at the same time brushing a lock of curls to the side of her face.

"Please –" she winced and recoiled from his touch, overwhelmed by a frightening feeling of déjà vu that incapacitated her, "- just don't talk –," she said as she squeezed her eyes shut again, shrinking away from him. "I don't want to hear your voice."

"I came here to warn you, Granger – to save your life," he urged, his impatience getting the better of him. "The least you can do is be a little more gracious –"

"I don't want to hear anything you have to say, Malfoy."

"Something…something awful is going to happen to you if you don't leave here, tonight."

"Worse than this?" she snorted. "I don't want to talk to you anymore, Malfoy. Why on God's earth are you here? What, do you get some sort of odd satisfaction from making me miserable? I don't want to see you again. I don't know how to make this any more clear. You lead your life, and I'll lead mine. You've done enough – I never want to see you again."

"Granger, there's going to be –," he began hurriedly, but cut himself off, running his thumb and forefinger down his jaw-line, torn and conflicted as he turned and shifted on the spot. The tightening of his jaw muscles clearly indicated that he was fighting an internal struggle – whether to divulge the secret and tell her the truth or to keep her blind to what was going on. Finally, he gripped himself and said with all intention of staying calm, "I-I just wanted to warn you."

"Consider me warned," she snapped. "You did what you came for, now you can go." She indicated him toward the front door.

He studied her for a brief moment, his gaze unsettling her, and stepped back incredulously as if he just realized something extraordinary. "You don't believe me, do you?" Her silence reaffirmed his conclusion, and he shook his head disbelievingly. Capturing her eyes, he held a hand up, like he was about to swear an oath, and said, "I give you my word."

"Your word doesn't exactly have a great track record, now does it?" she spat.

He paused, studying the look of disgust in her eyes, and his lips tightened as if there was a lot more he wanted to say, but knew he shouldn't. "All right, I'll leave – " he said huffily, as if she'd insulted his honor. "But once I'm out that door, don't expect _anything_ from me."

If he thought that his threat would mean anything to her, he was wrong, and she stood steely and resolute, indicating toward the door with her eyes.

With a final affronted look, he made for the front door. He pulled it open halfway, ready to exit, and for a moment, she thought that perhaps this would be the end – there would be no more of this absolute ridiculousness any longer. The feeling of relief was short-lived however, when he paused and cocked his head slightly toward her again, and she could tell there was a battle waging inside him.

How dare she? How dare she dismiss him so carelessly? Draco Malfoy was not one to be insulted, especially when there was so much at stake. She watched as the knuckles on his hand gripping the knob turned deathly white and the muscles of his jaw tightened dangerously. Without warning, he slammed the door shut and turned his heel, heading toward her with a dangerous expression etched on his face.

"_God-damn you_," he said, "I'm taking my son."

She stared back at him like he was a patient who just escaped from St. Mungo's Mental Ward."You – y-your? _Your?_" she spluttered in disbelief, shocked and angry at the same time, as if it was the most absurd thing she'd ever heard. "_Yours?_"

"I'm not going to let my son die because of some age-old grudge you hold against me."

"Don't be presumptuous," she retorted, flabbergasted. "What makes you think –"

"Now, is this the point where you're going to claim immaculate conception, Granger?" he drawled, jesting her. He placed his hands in his pockets, as if he'd just stopped by for a friendly chat. "Go ahead, humor me."

A blush crept into her checks, and she folded her arms over her chest defensively. "What makes you think – Ron and I – well, what do you know –" she stammered, her words staccatoed and hardly comprehensible.

"Yes, because the red hair and the freckles are just so obvious," he inserted jeeringly. "Now we can waste the next ten minutes arguing about this, in which you're going to name off every single one of your male acquaintances like a moron in an attempt to convince me to the contrary, or - " He sighed and withdrew a folded piece of parchment from his back pocket, and thrust it into her unwilling hands, "- I can save us both the trouble." He indicated for her to open it, and she looked hesitantly at the document, before cautiously opening the top flap, which revealed the letterhead.

_St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Maladies_

_DNA Laboratory Facilities_

"How dare you?" she said seethingly, tossing the parchment onto the counter as if it seared her hands, without unfolding it any further.

"You're not going to read the rest of it? Don't you want to know what it says?" he prodded slyly, enjoying her reaction. "Or does this mean you already know what's in it?"

She didn't trust herself to speak.

He saw the way she clenched her teeth at his words, and the way her delicate hands balled into fists, and he continued with a sigh. "You can hate me as much as you want, Granger, make your excuses, but at the end of the day, it's still my blood running through his veins." His eyes swept the small flat. "Now where is he?"

He made for the nearest door, but she scrambled ahead of him and planted herself in front of it, hands outstretched behind her, gripping the frame and sealing the entrance.

"_Don't you dare._"

He placed his hands on the doorframe, on either side of the door, and lowered his face toward hers, so that they were barely inches apart, and he could feel her heavy breaths on his skin as she glared into his eyes with a ferocity he had not expected. There was something impressive about her that he'd never really had the chance to notice before – something in the fierce spark in her eye that indicated a spirit that could never be subdued, something that the events of so long ago had not quenched. "I'm not going to hurt him."

She shook her head passionately. "Leave him out of this, Malfoy…please," she begged, her voice trembling, "- your quarrel is with me."

"He's _my_ son, he's Malfoy blood."

"After what you did to me? You don't have any right to him."

"I have every right to him - I'm his father."

"No!" she said shrilly. "No, you're not. Who gives a damn about blood – none of it matters," she repeated Ginny's earlier sentiments. "He doesn't know who you are – he doesn't need to – and it's going to stay that way. You – are – not – his – father."

He snorted derisively. "What did you tell him then, Granger – that his father was some sort of a noble war hero who died fighting to the death?" he said sarcastically, but after taking a good look at her reaction, which told him it was exactly what she had done, his expression faded into annoyed disbelief. "Christ..."

"What should I have told him, then?" she retorted. "That his father's some slimy, vile git – a vicious criminal – an elitist, cold-hearted murderer – a brute, a supporter of mass genocide – who wouldn't think twice about killing people – children – just like him – in order to rid the world of people _just like him_? Or that he's the very product of…of…" She closed her eyes to steady herself. "I hate you…all of you."

Not quite angered, but only slightly vexed, he said, "Don't be so fucking self-righteous, Granger. How do you think the Ministry got all that information about us, then, to win the war? By asking nicely? Ever give a thought to what they did to Rosier or Greengrass when they were captured? It's a war for Merlin's sake – don't pretend for a second that you wouldn't have done anything to win." He lowered his voice. "As for the boy – " he reached for the piece of parchment on the counter, unfolded it and shoved it in her face roughly, "- he's only half yours."

"Malfoy…" her voice ebbed off, "let it go…please, just let it go."

"I want to protect him."

"Can you protect him from yourself?" she breathed.

Something in his eyes flickered. His face softened, and the intensity in his eyes faded. She was barely inches from his face, and for the first time, she noticed the lines on his otherwise finely chiseled face that spoke of just how worn and destitute he looked, and of the toll the last few days had taken on him. His lips parted slowly just a bit, and he said, with great austerity, "I just want to see my son."

She squeezed her eyes shut, and a tear rolled down the side of her cheek. "Please…don't..." Her eyes were glassy when she opened them again, and she looked pleadingly into his eyes. "I don't want him to know…he deserves to grow up knowing his father is a good man."

The brutal honestly of her words, the fact that she regarded him as anything but a good man, cut him deeper than either of them could have ever imagined. For a brief moment, his cold façade faded, and she could swear she caught a glimpse of something human inside him after all. The momentary lapse in his control was barely perceptible and quickly remedied when he reinstated his usual demeanor, but he found himself pulling back from her, to her relief, giving himself space to think.

She clearly wasn't about to budge.

When he made his final decision, he averted his eyes, and began - "The Death Eaters are going to mount a massive offensive attack." He didn't have to look at her to know the horrified expression she would have on her face. "The Ministry is going to fall before sunrise."

Horror faded into disbelief, and then denial. "Why should I believe you?"

"You already do," he said, reading the fear in her eyes.

She steadied herself as her face paled, holding onto the doorpost, the impact of his revelation sending her mind reeling. The Ministry…fall…before the night was over. "How strong are your forces?" she asked finally, in a strangled voice.

"Strong enough to take down the entire Ministry," he said. "This has been seven years in the making – ever since Potter overthrew the regime." Seeing the look of surprise on her face, he snorted, "What, did you think we were actually going to sit back and let all of you run this country?"

His last words were lost to her, and she relived the memories of the last war, and casualties, the suffering, the pain. "God…"

"They're going to stop at nothing to destroy the Ministry, and they'll kill everyone who stands in their way," he continued. "Our men are strong and capable…I trained them...I made sure of that." The pride in his voice was tinged with bitter irony.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because by God, Granger, I'm not going to lose two sons in one week."

She was too shocked by the news to tell him that under no circumstances would Ethan ever be _his_ son. "I have to…I have to tell Harry," she stammered in a flurry. "I don't have the Floo, and Apparition doesn't work here… but there must be something I could do…Harry has to know…"

"It's too late," Draco said. "The Ministry is going to fall, Granger. Everything's been set in motion. Nothing you do can change that."

"Ginny – and the kids – they have to know!" she pleaded.

"There's nothing you can do for them at this point. But there is something you can do for your son." He fished in the inside pocket of his coat, and retrieved a stack of papers. "Here's tickets –" he said, handing them over to her, "- to Paris – tonight. Everything's booked – there'll be someone to pick you up when you arrive – I've taken care of it all, covered all the expenses – and once you're there, you'll be safe."

Hermione shook her head slowly as she studied the tickets. "It's for tonight – 11:50 – that's- that's in less than an hour – I'll have to pack – we'll never make it on time –"

"There's a cab waiting outside, Granger – leave your belongings – you'll have the Malfoy account at your disposal in France to purchase whatever you wish – right now, all you need to do is to get on this airplane."

After a moment's hesitation, she said, "All right, we'll go – but you have to promise – promise me that you won't say anything to him…please."

"Fine," he said hastily, and whether or not it was a lie he himself wasn't even sure. What mattered right now was that she followed his plan, and he was willing to say anything to get her to agree.

Hermione nodded and grasped the door knob behind her, now understanding the full urgency of the situation. If she wanted her son to live, she would have to get to him to the airport, and there was no time to spare. She turned the knob and swung it open behind her, ready to wake her son from his slumber.

Instead she came face to face with him. And the sight of him nearly scared her out of her wits.

Ethan offered a feeble, sheepish smile, the kind he usually gave when he had done something particularly naughty and didn't want his mother to be too angry.

"I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear," he offered hastily, frozen guiltily and wide-eyed at his mother, but the looks of it told her that eavesdropping was exactly what he was doing. She was too shocked and panic-stricken to respond to him. What had he heard?

"What did you hear?" she demanded, too frightened to be angry.

"Nothing, mummy, I swear!" he said, looking up innocently at her panicked, but disbelieving expression. Then he winced and said, "something about Paris?"

The tone of his voice told her that he wasn't lying – he hadn't heard anything important, she was sure of it. After all, she had raised him for the last six years, she knew his mannerisms, and she could always tell whether he was being truthful or not.

As Ethan's eyes went curiously from his mother to the stranger in the room, she was hit with the sudden reality of the situation and stood dumbfounded, without a clue as to what exactly what she should do. She glanced from Draco to Ethan, painfully aware of the distinct similarities between them that glared back ruthlessly at her.

"Now, don't be rude, Granger, are you going to just stand there, or are you going to introduce us?" His gaze was leveled at the boy, whom he studied closely this time, noting the minute details of his face, the Malfoy eyes, the aristocratic nose, the oddly familiar curve of his jaw.

Hermione threw him a scathing look and made a move to shield her son. "Alright then," she said, finally. "Malfoy, this is my son Ethan." She looked down and stroked his halo of blond hair. "Ethan, this is – " _the vilest, foulest creature who ever had the audacity to crawl out from under his slimy little rock_," – Draco Malfoy."

"Well, now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Draco bent down so that he was level with the young boy, and offered his hand. "Hello, Ethan, it's good to finally meet you."

Ethan glanced from Draco Malfoy's hand to his mother, tacitly asking whether or not he should accept this man's hand – this man whom, from what he could tell, his mother abhorred. She looked away, neither giving consent nor denying it. Ethan decided not to be rude, reached out, and shook the man's hand.

Draco was surprised at how such small hands could produce such a strong and firm handshake. "Ever seen the Eiffel Tower, Ethan? You and your mother are going to France."

"But Mummy," he said, looking up to Hermione, "I thought you said we didn't have enough money to –"

"Ethan!" Hermione scolded, her face flushing. The last thing she wanted was to for Draco Malfoy to know the details of her financial troubles.

"Tell you what, Ethan," Draco said kindly, "you get dressed, and I'll take care of the rest of it. You and your mum will never be short of money again, I promise."

"Does that mean I can go back to school –"

"Don't listen to him, Ethan," Hermione reprimanded, and then threw Draco a dirty look. "Keep your money. I'll pay you back for everything later, I'm not going to owe you anything." Turning back to her son, she said, "Get dressed, Ethan, we're leaving now."

"_Now?_ Mum, it's like night, aren't you supposed to tell me to go back to bed?"

"Sweetheart, we have to go," she said, more sympathetically this time. "I know it's awful, but please, go to your room and get dressed."

Ethan agreed hesitantly but bounded into his room without another word, leaving Draco and Hermione alone again.

"Charming boy," Draco commented. "Takes after me, really."

"Once this is all over, you'll leave us alone. If I see you come near my son ever again, you'll have hell to pay."

"Yes, but until that time, you had better do as you're told – why don't you start with getting dressed so we can leave this damn mold-infested place you call home?"

"Don't touch anything!" Hermione hissed, as she headed for the other bedroom.

He watched as she disappeared behind the bedroom door and re-emerged a few moments later donned in a pair of jeans and a simple, short-sleeved shirt. At the same time, Ethan stumbled out of his room, carrying the latest book she had purchased for him open on his arm, reading it.

"Ethan! You're hardly dressed!" she exclaimed, eyeing him from head to toe. He had already pulled on his khaki pants, but was still wrapped in his nightshirt.

"What's the hurry?" he said, absorbed in his book. "I'm almost done with this chapter, can't it wait?"

"I told you – " she paused, stopping herself from launching into another tirade – it was not the time or place for one. What mattered most was that they got out of there as quickly as humanly possible. She wrenched the book out of his hands, grabbed his shirt, and peeled it off.

"Ow! Omph! Mum!"

She disregarded his complaints and proceeded to pull a navy blue polo quickly over his head, before he could object.

As she finished dressing her son, he surveyed the photographs sitting in neat frames that decorated the wall next to the bookshelf. There was Ethan – with the fair hair and the piercing grey eyes – in various ages from one picture to the next – a baby crawling on the ground staring up with big grey eyes, a toddler strapped in a high-chair with a face full of red sauce, playing with a half-eaten bowl of spaghetti. A fresh pang of guilt assaulted him as he was vaguely reminded of everything in Scorpius's life he had missed – and now _this_. He saw Hermione scowl at him out of the pictures as he observed them, ducking out of the frame and pulling the boy with her.

His sight settled on a final picture – this one unmoving, so that both of them smiled out from the grassy background – it must have been a muggle portrait, he reasoned, or they would have dodged out of sight from him like in the other photographs. It looked fairly recent – the boy seemed about the same age Draco had seen him at his school barely two weeks before. Hermione's arms were wrapped affectionately around the little boy, as if she'd just captured him in her embrace in a game of tag, and her head was pressed against his, both of them with goofy expressions, laughing candidly into the lens. He removed the small frame from the hook on the wall and took it into his hand, glad that it was a muggle photo, because they couldn't do anything but smile back at him, genuinely so, and somehow that offered him a measure of comfort. He traced his finger down the contours of the boy's face. Glancing to make sure she was still turned away from him, kneeling on the ground, busy tying Ethan's shoe laces, he slipped the photograph out of its frame. Reaching into his pocket, he fished out his wallet and tucked the photograph safely into its folds.

He replaced the frame on the wall, and turned to face them.

"You ready?"

"Yes," Hermione mumbled, grabbing a tan colored coat off the hook on the wall and throwing it around her shoulders.

The three of them exited the flat without another word, and Hermione locked it behind her. They continued silently down the hallway to the stairwell, and descended, finally arriving at the front of the establishment, where a car was waiting.

"Took you long enough," the stout cabbie said, as he dropped his cigarette on the ground and smothered it with his heel. He opened the side door, and Draco ushered them in, Hermione first, who pulled Ethan in behind her. Much to her dismay, Draco stepped in after the two of them.

"Heathrow Airport," he said, as he shut the car door.

"There's plenty of room up in the front," Hermione snapped.

Draco turned to her complacently. "Ah, yes, you're free to change your seat if you wish."

Hermione scowled and pulled Ethan protectively to her, as if Draco was a dangerous leper. Although normally Ethan would have reacted to such a gesture, he was too tired to complain as it was much past his bedtime and the novelty of the situation had worn off. He could hardly keep his eyes open, much less protest. Hermione held his tiny body against hers and pressed her head against the window, looking out onto the brightly lit street.

"How long will it take?" Draco asked, as the cabbie pulled into the street.

"Oh, not too long. I'd say thirty minutes or so, from the looks of the traffic right now," the bearded man answered. He viewed them from the rear view mirror. "That's a fine young boy you got there. You must be a proud father."

"No!" Hermione said, looking horrified, pulling Ethan closer to her. "He's _my_ son."

"Well, there you have it," Draco said coolly to the cabbie. It was hardly the place or time for an argument.

The rest of the ride passed in awkward silence. The air around them was tense, and even the cabbie knew not to attempt conversation. When he finally pulled to the curb at the international airport, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

Hermione shook Ethan to wake him, and scrambled out of the car, pulling his sleepy form out behind her. Draco emerged from the other side and deposited a thick wad of money into the driver's hands.

The three of them rushed in, beyond the sliding doors, heading for the check-in counter. The airport was empty, except for a few stragglers here and there, and Hermione hoped that they were not too late.

"We have reservations on the 11:35 flight to Paris," Hermione said breathlessly, as Draco retrieved the tickets from his coat and thrust it onto the counter.

The agent took the papers into her hands and studied them for a second.

"I'm sorry, check-in is closed. The flight's boarding."

"Just print the damn boarding passes," Draco demanded impatiently.

"You'll never make it to the gate in time," the ticketing agent argued.

"Please," Hermione pleaded. "We really need to get on this flight – if there's any way – please – the monitor says that the flight's delayed." She pointed to the screen on the wall, where all the departing flights were listed.

"Yes, ma'am, there was a very short delay, but as you can see, it's 11:45, and they are currently boarding right now, and you won't get to the gate in time to board."

"Can you just do it?" Hermione asked. "We'll run."

The ticketing agent shook her head sympathetically.

"_Print them!_" Draco, who had let Hermione do the talking, was finally too impatient and vexed to hold back any longer. His tone was authoritative, and the expression on his face was dangerous.

The young agent looked fearfully at him, as if expecting him to pull out a gun any moment. When he did not relinquish his glare, she nodded in fright. "All right, sir," she said weakly, and she started typing on her keyboard. A few moments later, the machine at her side produced the tickets, and she offered it to them.

Draco grabbed them out of her hand without any acknowledgement and continued toward security, and it was Hermione who had the decently to turn to her and say a quick but appreciative "Thank you," before turning and running toward the security check, with Ethan following at her side.

As none of them had any belongings, they breezed through the security check-in, and hurried down the maze of gates, searching for number Gate 24. When they finally arrived, winded and breathless, the gate was completely empty except for one uniformed agent who was promptly shutting the inner door.

"We have to get on that flight," Draco said, pointing to the airplane through the glass window.

The man shook his head resolutely. "I'm sorry, sir, we're done boarding. The flight is closed."

"Please, we're really in a hurry," Hermione said.

"It's too late, I'm really terribly sorry."

"We need to get on that flight," Hermione demanded, fiercely this time, her brown eyes glowering in a way that was uncharacteristic of her.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, that's impossible," he said. "If you would like, I can book you tickets on the next available flight tomorrow morning -"

"No, that won't do," Draco cut in coldly. "Open the damn door."

"Sir –"

"I can see the damn airplane from here – you haven't even retracted the jetway!"

"Sir, the plane is pulling away from the gate."

"Is there any way you could –" Hermione began, before Draco silenced her.

He pointed to the black device the man was holding in his hand. "You have a radio – call them back."

"Sir, it's out of my hands."

Draco pulled his wallet out of his pocket, and pulled a wad of money out, counting the sheets silently, and then offered it to the agent. "Here's a thousand pounds." The agent shook his head resolutely, and Draco pulled out several more bills. "Not enough? Two thousand then? Name your price."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Draco grabbed him by the cuff of his collar. "_Sorry?_"

"Leave him alone, Malfoy," Hermione warned, stepping up.

"I'm going to call security," the attendant threatened, sweat licking his brow.

"No, you're not," Hermione snapped commandingly, and then she turned to Draco. "We're leaving."

"I'm not done here."

She blinked. "All right, then, _you_ keep haggling him," she said. "Ethan, let's go." She turned her heel and began heading down the terminal with her son in tow.

Draco Malfoy glanced at the agent and then at Hermione's retreating figure, knowing that he had no choice in the matter. He let go of the man, although clearly unsatisfied, threw him a dirty look, and ran to catch up with Hermione and Ethan.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Home," she said simply.

"Home?"

"Well then what do you suggest we do?" she said impatiently. "We'll just catch the next flight in the morning, or maybe the rail."

"There won't be any flights in the morning – not for the next week, month, or even year, Granger, don't you understand? The Death Eaters are coming – you think they're gonna leave this place intact?"

"Well, that's not my doing, is it?" she retorted viciously.

"You're coming with me."

"No, I'm not."

"Then I'm taking _him_."

"Over my dead body."

"Look, I can fix this, Granger," he said, stepping in front of her to halt her.

"You're disgusting," she said, ducking out of the way and heading for the exit, "and I can't stand to be around you any longer."

"Don't be cross, we were just getting along fine."

"Stop deceiving yourself, Malfoy," she replied coldly. "We're never going to get along. We were merely united in a common effort."

She waved for the nearest taxi, and then spun on her heel to face him. "Two tickets – there were two tickets. One for Ethan, one for me. What about you?"

His expression was blank and then a smirk emerged. "What, you want me to come with you?" he said coyly. "Afraid you were going to miss me, Granger?"

"Don't be disgusting," she said, the thought of it nauseating her. "You were going to stay here, weren't you? Hide us away like some dirty little secret and rejoin the Death Eaters to take sport in murdering people just like us. You make me sick."

"I have certain responsibilities, I won't deny that."

"I hate you."

"I'd rather you hate me than have him die – "

" – at the hand of one of your own minions?" She sighed as the cab pulled up along the curb in front of them. "When it comes down to this, you're still a chauvinistic pig, Malfoy. You want to save Ethan? What about the millions of other children out there who are going to die? Who's going to save them?"

She led her sleepy son into the back of the cab and climbed in after him. Before she could speak to the driver, Draco had opened the front door and seated himself in the front passenger's seat.

"Start driving," he ordered the driver, "Go!"

The cabbie did so, pulling away from the curb so that Hermione didn't have a chance to open the door to exit.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked.

Draco said something to the driver that Hermione didn't catch, and her complaints were largely ignored. A few minutes later, they had pulled up at the well-lit entrance to a popular hotel.

"What are we doing here?" she said, stepping out.

"Plan B," he said. "You didn't think I'd be unprepared, did you?"

"Brilliant," she said sarcastically, "what's this all about?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"Mum, look at this place, it's amazing!" Ethan said with awe as he stepped inside the large, brightly lit reception area, turning his eyes upward to examine the crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceilings.

They made their way inside, Draco leading the pack with Ethan a few steps behind, throwing backward glances at Hermione who lagging quite a ways back with a scowl on her face.

"Really, Malfoy, this is ridiculous! Ethan, we're going home – now!"

Suddenly, an attendant with a luggage trolley crossed between them, separating Hermione from the rest of them, and obscured her view.

Draco did not let this opportunity slip away – he grabbed Ethan before the boy could react, and threw him over his shoulder like a rucksack, so that his arms pinned down the boy's legs and his upper body dangled down Draco's backside. Ethan put up a good fight, kicking and hitting Draco in every way he could, although to no avail. Draco turned the corner where there was a row of lifts, and luckily, one of them had just enough room that he was able to duck inside quickly.

Hermione appeared around the corner, a frantic expression on her face as she tried desperately to spot them. When she saw them standing in the lift, she rushed forward, just as the doors began to close, willing the space in between them to disappear faster. Ten meters, nine, eight, seven, six…

"Room 717," he shouted as the doors closed between them.

"Argh! Let me go! Let me go!" Ethan shouted, as he pounded his fists on Draco's back and kicked his legs against him. "Let me go, you stupid old hag!"

The other passengers looked at them, horrified.

"Watch your language, Ethan," Draco said simply, holding Ethan's legs pinned to his chest with his strong arm as the little boy, dangling down his back, continued to bat away at him. He threw an apologetic glance toward the other passengers in the lift, who were looking at them suspiciously, obviously taken aback at Ethan's behavior. "An unruly little tyke, I know," Draco offered with a calm smile. "His mother's fault, really."

"What have you done with my mum? Let me go! Where are you taking me?" Ethan said, in a renewed struggle. "Don't let him take me! He's kidnapped me!"

"Now, honestly, Ethan, that's going a bit too far," Draco said, feigning insult. "Is this the way you speak to your father?"

"He's lying," Ethan pleaded toward the other passengers. "He's not my dad! He's gone and kidnapped me, I swear!"

"I see you've had way too much sugar," he said, pretending to be worried at the prospect. "I'll have to speak to your mother about that." He turned to the others in the lift and added, "I apologize for his behavior, his mother and I are going through a terrible divorce, and our counselor said he's having trouble coming to terms with it."

"Liar!" Ethan shouted. "I hate you, and so – does – my – mum!"

Draco watched with odd satisfaction as the passengers studied him and then the boy, noting their strange similarities. The fact that they didn't act or try to stop him gave him invigorated him with a sense of fatherhood, and confirmed his rights to the boy. As they scrutinized the blond hair and the identical facial features, they came to their own conclusions that it was a family matter they should not dapple in.

An old man in the corner waved his cane at Draco and said, "If he were my son, I'd give him a right little spanking or two."

"Did you hear the nice old man, Ethan?"

To the passengers' relief, the elevator arrived at the seventh floor, and they thanked the heavens as they watched the pair of them exit the lift, the boy still beating away disrespectfully at the man who was obviously his father. As the doors closed, they felt oddly grateful that none of their children were anywhere as ill-behaved as that little boy, and soon the incident was all forgotten.

Draco hurried down the hallway as Ethan kicked and fought against him, and quickly arrived at room number 717. He slipped a key card out of his back pocket, inserted it in the door, and when moments later it blinked green, he turned the knob and pushed his way in.

Although the room was beautifully furnished – it was a very upscale hotel, of course – it was a small with only one bed, hardly fit for anyone of Draco Malfoy's status. However, it didn't matter, because they weren't going to be here for long, and all they really needed was a private place, and this would do. Draco Malfoy tossed the Ethan effortlessly onto the bed.

There was a well-dressed man standing at the balcony, facing away from them.

"I was afraid you were going to show up," Blaise said as he turned away from the balcony and approached them on the other side of the room. He noticed Ethan, who had up-righted himself on the bed and was glaring at both of them with murder in his eyes. "Ah, and you must be Ethan," he said with a bemused smile.

Ethan scowled, and looked like he was ready to pounce and fight to the death. Then his eyes wandered to the telephone by the lamp on the nightstand with an odd expression on his face, as if he was about to grab it and use it as some sort of weapon.

"Stay put," Draco warned authoritatively toward the boy, and then he turned to Blaise. "Are they safe?"

"I sent Lavender and the children to Italy – my aunt will take care of them in their villa," he said. "From the looks of it, you haven't had such luck."

Draco didn't speak, but merely looked at him with fierce determination in his eyes.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Blaise said.

"It's not exactly my first choice, is it?" Draco sneered, "…but under the circumstances, do you see any other options?"

"Now if I recall correctly, you told me, mere hours ago, that you'd rather die than –"

"Things are different now," he snapped.

"And so they are," Blaise agreed but the tone of his voice hinted at his concern. "I just don't want you to get yourself into something you'll regret, Draco, that's all. I mean, really, she is a mud –" he paused uncomfortably as he eyed the young boy, who was scowling, sitting on the bed and listening to every word they were saying, "- M-U-D-B-L-O-O-D for crying out loud!

"What's a 'mudblood'?" Ethan piped. Blaise threw him an annoyed look of disbelief, clearly vexed that his spelling strategy, which Lavender had taught him to use on their children, didn't work. "I'm six," he declared as-a-matter-of-factly, "I can spell."

"Precocious brat," Blaise muttered. "At least he's got her brains."

At that moment, they were interrupted by a fierce knock at the door, which could only mean one thing. Draco headed toward the door and when he swung it open, a very upset Hermione Granger stormed in.

"Where is he?" she demanded breathlessly, glancing around the room, as Draco shut the door behind her and locked it.

"Mum!" Ethan shouted as he bounced off the bed and ran in his mother's arms.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as she held her son in a tight embrace, glad that he was safe from harm. Then she attacked him with a plethora of questions. "Are you all right? Did they do anything to you? Did they hurt you? Oh, sweetheart, I was so worried!"

She was so engrossed in tending to her son that she hadn't even noticed Blaise's presence, and was even less aware that he and Draco were engaged in a hasty, whispered conversation as they scrutinized her. After she made sure that Ethan was indeed just fine, she turned to Draco and said, "Now are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?" Her eyes swept the room and was shocked to see Blaise Zabini, whom she regarded as one of the most talented and yet despicable attorneys, standing next to Draco. "What's he doing here?" she said, eyeing the Slytherin with particular disdain.

Blaise's jaw dropped. "You haven't told her?"

"Told me what?" She glanced suspiciously from Blaise to Draco, feeling more uncomfortable by the second as the former steered his eyes away from her to avoid her gaze, and the latter's mouth curled mischievously.

Her uneasy look of uncertainty only emboldened Draco, and whatever ill-ease he had for the plan at head evaporated instantly. He threw a possessive arm around her and lassoed her stiffly and unwillingly to him, clearly enjoying the reaction he evoked. A smirk of smug satisfaction tugged at the corners of his mouth in anticipation of her reaction.

"You see, Granger," Draco began charmingly, "he's going to perform our marriage."

-x-x-x-

Author's Note: Sorry for all the mistakes and weird parts, they will get edited and fleshed out, but I just wanted to post it cuz it's been so long since I've updated! Please leave a review!


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